


Dream A Little Dream

by TheSpiderThatKnowsThePlan



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bodyswap, Depression, Dreamsharing, Happy Ending, Hurt, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24590707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpiderThatKnowsThePlan/pseuds/TheSpiderThatKnowsThePlan
Summary: Pete Wentz is a depressed seventeen-year-old who is all but ignored by his parents, has almost no hope of graduating high school, and is also hopelessly in love with Patrick Stumph, a cute boy who plays drums in the school band and who seems afraid of his own shadow. The problem is that Patrick is dating Pete's friend Gabe, who has not only a drinking problem, but also an anger management problem.Meanwhile, Pete's elderly neighbors, Coleman and Gena Ettinger, are planning an experiment that, if successful, will send their essences into the dream realm, where they can live together forever.The night of the experiment, Pete and Patrick have a fateful accident that causes the experiment to go awry. Pete is flung into the dream realm, Coleman ends up stuck in Pete's body, and Gena seems to be lost between the two worlds. Coleman has to navigate high school somewhat through Pete's eyes, find Gena, and get them back to their old lives before she's gone forever. The only connection seems to be Patrick, but he's trapped in more ways than one.A long-ass one-shot for the Lights! Camera! Peterick! 2020 Challenge, based on the 1988 Corey Haim/Corey Feldman classic teen comedy of the same name.
Relationships: Coleman Ettinger/Gena Ettinger, Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13
Collections: Lights! Camera! Peterick!





	Dream A Little Dream

“Joe? Wake up a second. I gotta talk to you,” Pete whispers across his bedroom, his thick, dark hair hanging in his honey-colored eyes.

He turns on the light by his “bed”, which is really just a cot with a beaten-up pillow and a thin blanket. The floor is littered with clothes, magazines, empty chip bags, and other typical teenage detritus. Posters of various rock bands, sports cars, and art prints line the walls.

Against the other wall, on a similarly minimalistic structure, Pete’s best friend, Joe, squints in irritation, but doesn’t answer.

“Joe,” Pete says again. “Come on.”

Joe’s lip ring starts twitching back and forth, and without opening his eyes, he intones, “Pete, I’m sound asleep, and dreaming. I am definitely not awake talking to my annoying best friend right now. In fact, I’m having a lovely dream that I’m married to Heather Locklear, and we’re lounging by my inground pool in L.A., drinking mai tais. I don’t hear anything but the lapping of the water, and Heather’s moans—”

Pete cuts him off. “Knock it off, dude. This is serious.” He pauses, takes a deep breath, and says, “I’m in love.”

Joe blinks a moment, seemingly absorbing this, then rolls toward Pete on one elbow, his short, bleach-blonde hair sticking up in all directions. “That could be a problem. I know your history with thinking you’re in love.”

“I’m serious,” Pete pleads. “I’m really in love.”

“Sure, sure, I believe you,” Joe placates. “So, which hand is it this week, pal?”

Pete has had enough at this point. “I’m trying to tell you I’m in love with Patrick.”

“Patrick,” Joe repeats flatly, in disbelief. “Patrick as in ‘Patrick Stumph’?” Pete nods meekly. “OK, are we talking about Patrick whose ass looks _great_ in those tight, black skinny jeans?”

“Yeah, his ass looks _fabulous_ in those black skinny jeans,” Pete agrees with a chuckle. “Wait a minute. I didn’t think you swung that way.”

Joe cocks an eyebrow. “For that ass, I could possibly be confused for a night.”

Pete nods. “So, then, you get what I mean.”

“Yeah, I get what you mean,” Joe agrees, “but maybe you’ve forgotten that he’s Gabe’s? Remember big, crazy, ultra-possessive Gabe who towers over both of us and probably has connections to the Peruvian mafia?”

“Is there a Peruvian mafia?” Pete asks, confused.

“If there is, then all his cousins are in it,” Joe confirms, “and if there isn’t, then there’s gotta be a Jewish mafia, and all his _other_ cousins are in _that_ one.” Pete shakes his head as Joe immediately starts panicking. “Gabe’s gonna find out about this, you know. He’s gonna find out, and he’s gonna kill you, and then kill me for aiding and abetting this conversation.” Pete laughs and shakes his head. “Dude, don’t laugh. Gabe is gonna walk in here with all his mafia cousins—”

“The Peruvian or the Jewish ones?” Pete asks with a snicker.

“All of them!” Joe wails, running his hands through his hair. He flips his lip ring faster now as he paces nervously. “He’s gonna walk in here with his whole gangster family and kill both of us at the same time!”

Pete then waits patiently for the next, oh half-an-infinity while Joe hyperventilates and tries to calm himself with demented ramblings about what he’ll say to Gabe when he inevitably barges into Pete’s bedroom at two in the morning.

“OK, are you done sucking Gabe’s proverbial dick yet?”

“You know, why does everything you say have to revolve around sex? Why are you so perverted?” Joe gripes as he throws an arm over his eyes.

“This isn’t about sex, OK? This is about me being totally in love with—”

“No,” Joe stops him, trying to keep quiet. “Don’t talk about him, don’t think about him, don’t even say his name. Just get him out of your head, man.”

“OK, fine,” Pete concedes, and they both lie down. “Patrick,” he croons.

Joe covers his ears. “NO!”

“Patrick, Patrick, PATRICK!” Pete says, and brays obnoxious laughter.

“Ugh, I’m way too wired now. Plus, hearing your horrible, boner-killing laughter means I’m never going to experience joy or rest in any form ever again. What do you wanna do?” Joe sighs heavily, the resigned sound of an incredibly put-upon and burdened best friend whose life clearly hangs in the balance as of half an hour ago, or so.

“Dog fight?” Pete asks. Joe agrees, and the boys’ night is summarily wasted with this and other inane teen boy time-killers and conversations until just before dawn, when they bump fists and curl up to get a couple of hours of sleep.

******

Coleman Ettinger shuffles out of the master bedroom he’s shared with his wife for over four decades, still pulling on his bathrobe. She hears his slippers on the hallway floor and comes to greet him.

“Good morning,” she coos softly, her voice almost musical. She looks gorgeous in the golden morning light filtering in through the curtains of the bedroom behind him. Coleman thinks she’s every bit as lovely now as when he first met her, although it’s… evolved, in a way. Wiser, more graceful, fuller in a way. Not just in the curve of her hips, or the way her round, rosy cheeks lift when she smiles, although he does love those things about her. Her _soul_ seems fuller to him, colored, shaded, and enriched by their years together. Still, he has important business to discuss.

“Gena, I had the most fantastic—” he begins excitedly.

“Dream,” she finishes for him. “You always have a dream.” She smiles fondly at her husband, sweet and boyish as ever, even now that his hair has thinned and gone white, and wrinkles decorate his kind, beaming face. Still, she feels that, lately, he’s grown away from her, somehow, lost in new thoughts and interests she can’t seem to share with him. He obsesses about his dreams, meditates for hours, and babbles about philosophy, energies, and supposed ‘science’ she isn’t sure she can even grasp, let alone agree with.

Coleman sighs in exasperation. He knows she isn’t interested in listening to him. “Gena, this is important!” He wants so much to share his new work with her, because this is as much about her as it is about him. He wants her to come with him on this new journey; he _needs_ her to be with him in this. Excited as he is about the possibilities he is discovering, he is also a little scared, and he doesn’t want to go anywhere or do anything without his beloved Gena. Still, he doesn’t want to show her any fear. Otherwise, she’ll never agree. With a resigned little shrug, he quotes, “’There are none so blind as those who will not see.’ Jeremiah 20.”

Gena laughs, and Coleman positively revels in the sound. “Go get dressed, or you’ll de discussing the dream theory of an old man surviving a punch in the nose. We have a guest coming this morning.”

“Ike is not a guest; he is a dependent,” Coleman corrects affectionately. “I’m not seeing anyone until I’ve done my meditation,” he pronounces.

“Why did you marry me?” Gena asks, her face pensive.

Coleman furrows his brow and says, “Because I saw the other half of me,” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I love you,” she says to him earnestly.

“I love you, too,” he replies, the words unhurried and carefully enunciated, full of honesty and contentment. Then, he heads to his study.

 _So, where are you trying to go?_ Gena thinks sadly.

******

“Look, I don’t want to hear about your stupid dream, Pete,” Joe whines. “It’s way too early for this shit.”

Pete takes a breath, then tries again. “Well, you know the old guy, from the shortcut we take every day? Well, he was in it.”

Joe rolls his eyes. “Pete, that’s just stupid,” he reiterates.

“Well, we gotta get up anyway, dude. Come on.” Pete, already standing, yanks Joe out of bed and onto the floor with a grunt. Joe tries to sweep Pete’s leg, but Pete’s years of playing soccer have left him far too agile for that. Pete dodges easily and throws some clothes at the lump of whiny teenager on his bedroom floor. “Get dressed before I kick your ass.”

The two boys meet up with the rest of their group of friends and head to school. Pete can’t help but notice that Gabe will not take his arm from around Patrick’s shoulders for anything while they all walk. Two of the girls, Jeanae and Hayley, have decided their latest obsession is rapping. While Jeanae makes terrible attempts at beatboxing, Hayley tries to describe in semi-poetic, tuneless verse how cool they are, and then can’t seem to think of anything else to rap about. Jeanae has given up on beatboxing and has just started chanting, “Go, Hay-Hay, go Hay-Hay…”

Pete doesn’t care that Jeanae’s his girlfriend at this particular moment, nor the fact that she’s been gracious enough to do his homework all semester. He whirls around to walk backward and face them, barking, “You guys suck, and rap sucks! It’s over! You’re the shittiest rappers ever.” Joe, for once, just winces and covers his ears, demonstrating an unusual level of restraint.

******

When Ike arrives at the Coleman house, he goes straight to the kitchen, where Gena is at the stove, listening to Frank Sinatra.

“Boo,” he says softly.

With a bright laugh, Gena turns around and hugs her old friend. “Oh, Ike,” she says, and gives him a kiss on the corner of the mouth.

“Where’s Coleman?” he asks as he folds his hands at the small of her back.

She glances toward the stairs. “He’s in his study. Now, you’re gonna have that little talk with him, right?”

Ike nods. “Just don’t expect any miracles.”

“Look, don’t let him know that I put you up to this,” she pleads, “please?”

“Relax, dear,” he croons. “Why don’t you forget about that crazy old coot,” he pauses to put on a cheesy accent, “and let me take you avay from all dees?”

Just then, they hear the obnoxious shouting of teenagers approaching the house, and Gena goes to the window. “Oh, God, here they come,” she grouses.

Upstairs, Coleman is trying to perform a kind of focusing kata in his study, eyes closed, when the din created by the kids outside breaks his concentration. He opens his eyes and straightens up and curses, “Dammit.”

******

The gang turn the corner onto the Ettingers’ property, making use of the walkway through the yard as a shortcut to the high school on the next street. They’re still shouting, attempting to rap, and generally making noise, while Joe and Pete kick at the flowers for the sport of it and laugh.

From the second story balcony, the old man’s voice shouts down to them, “How many times have I told you that this is private property?” They stop and look up at him, unimpressed. Ike emerges onto the first-floor porch and just watches the interaction with barely concealed amusement.

“Every day, sir,” Joe retorts without hesitation.

“Well, why don’t you go another way? ‘Foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.’ Emerson, 1841.” Mr. Ettinger leans forward over the railing with a superior look on his face, as though he’s just delivered some crushing _coup de grace_ to the youngsters.

“Yeah, like Emerson, Lake & Palmer. I’ve heard of him,” Gabe drawls lazily, his arm still holding Patrick close.

Mr. Ettinger squawks in indignation and commands, “Stay off the grass! Look what you’re doing to my lawn!”

Joe spreads his arms in a gracious gesture. “You don’t have to thank us, sir. It’s our pleasure.”

“Thanking you never entered my mind,” the old man says, his tone superior. “You know, you are interrupting _my work_.” He emphasizes this by moving both hands in front of himself, first one way, then the other, as though there is absolutely nothing insane or embarrassing about this.

As predicted, the teenagers snicker to themselves and exchange glances that clearly indicate that it is absolutely both insane _and_ embarrassing.

Pete takes a step forward and claps his hands together. “Um, I’ll tell you what sir: we’re very sorry, and this will never happen again,” he says completely insincerely.

“Never, ever,” Joe adds, also obviously mocking the old man.

With an eyeroll, Mr. Ettinger moves over toward where the balcony meets the house. “That’s what you always say.”

Joe and Pete look at each other with faux surprise. “We do?” Pete says sarcastically, and Joe grins.

Just then, the hose turns on, and it sprays water mixed with bright-red plant-growth solution directly at the teens. They scream and start to run.

“Beware the Crimson Tide,” Ike calls with a smarmy grin, which promptly disappears when he sees Pete pick up the hose and turn it directly on him. “Oh, shit,” he mumbles before he’s doused in solution.

Later, the three friends sit for breakfast in their usual balcony table, Ike wiping himself off. When the waitress asks what happened to him, Coleman makes some corny joke about Ike being “red in the face”. Ike warns about billing him for cleaning his new jogging suit, and before the men can bicker about it, the waitress cleverly interrupts to take their orders. Coleman gives elaborate instructions for his chicken salad sandwich, and then orders raw squash. He’s about to opine about how raw squash is excellent for some bodily function or other, but Ike cuts him off and threatens to puke all over the table if he dares describe it. They all laugh, and the waitress leaves them to their companionable laughter.

******

At school, the kids are a little early, so they have some time to kill before class starts. Pete and Joe stop to have a smoke outside the doors, while everyone else goes in. Pete watches Patrick go, Gabe’s arm still around him, with longing.

Patrick heads to the band room to work on a piece he’s composing for an upcoming music recital (which he knows Gabe will only be going to so he can keep an eye on “his guy”, not because he actually enjoys it). He spends a couple of minutes on the drums, tinkering with the percussion line, and before he knows it, he’s just pounding out an angry solo, teeth gritted and eyes flinching with every hard strike. He calms down after a minute or so, panting and sweating a bit. He knows he’d better clean up before he runs into Gabe at any point, lest he think Patrick has been hooking up with someone else the second he left Gabe’s field of vision. He’ll never get why Gabe is so paranoid about Patrick finding someone else. It’s not like he’s Rob Lowe, or anything; he’s just a short, pasty, asthmatic who likes playing music.

He knows at least part of it, if not all of it, is because Gabe has been pressuring him more and more to put out, even going so far as to use that exact phrasing with him when he brings up the subject. They’ve only been dating a few months, but apparently the fact that they haven’t had sex seems to mean Patrick’s “locked together at the knees”, another charming phrase Gabe uses.

Patrick pushes up his glasses and sighs heavily, looking at the guitar. He never gets any time to work on his own stuff anymore, between school, band, and Gabe’s constant pawing and prying. He figures it’s probably a compliment, the way Gabe seems to want him so much, but something about their whole relationship just feels off, and Patrick can’t put his finger on it.

 _Maybe it’s just the idea that someone wants to date you at all_ , he hears Gabe say in his head. Yes, Gabe even whipped out _that_ little gem when Patrick expressed some level of discomfort at the level of attention Gabe pays to him. Granted, he’s not _wrong_. Patrick isn’t exactly fending off suitors with a club, or anything. He’s pretty lucky to have a hot boyfriend like Gabe who cares about him.

Probably.

He goes to the bathroom to splash some water on his face and smooth his hair before facing the day, and he pretends he doesn’t see Gabe pulling a flask out of his locker and taking a swig before going to class.

******

Ike and Coleman pull up to the waterfront for their walk, get out and stretch a bit before they begin.

“You gotta see it through Gena’s eyes,” Ike counsels. “You go in that room for hours, and… meditate, or whatever, you come out and suddenly you’re talking like a—”

“Crazy man?” Coleman cuts him off, a defiant grin on his face. “Is that what she thinks?”

Ike isn’t smiling, though. “She hopes you’re crazy. Crazy can be cured. If it’s the other… well, there’s nothing anyone can do.”

Coleman straightens up and looks over the hood of his car at his best friend. “Look, I’m not getting senile, and I’m not crazy either,” he insists.

“Well, what’s she worried about, then?” Ike presses. “There must be some reasonable explanation for all this.”

Coleman trots around the front of the car and puts his hands on Ike’s shoulders. His eyes are wide, and his tone is nearly breathless with excitement. “I’m conducting a scientific experiment. No one knows what dreams really are. Now, if I can find the point where they intersect with reality and enter one _consciously_ ,” he pauses and puts his hands together in front of his chest as though he were praying, “if I could really enter the dream state, well, who knows? Maybe I could live forever.”

Ike pauses, checking Coleman’s face for any sign that he’s joking or unwell. He sees none. “Well, just be careful what you wish for,” he advises.

******

Pete and Joe sit outside as students exit to have lunch outside. Patrick descends the stairs amid some of the other students, and Pete is waving before he knows what he’s doing.

“Would you knock it off?” Joe pleads, grabbing his wrist and yanking it down.

Pete sighs dramatically. “I just wish he knew how I felt.”

Joe rolls his eyes. “Be careful what you wish for, dude. That Happy Meal comes with a free side of full-body traction, and you know it.”

As Patrick walks off, Pete stares at his back. And also his ass. And also his face as he turns back to look at him again, shakes his head in confusion, and just gives another feeble wave before walking away.

“Oh, my God, Pete, fucking stop looking at him!” Joe orders, slugging Pete in the arm.

“Look, do me a favor?” Pete asks, and Joe eyes him hesitantly. “Don’t worry, OK?”

Joe shrugs, sighs, and agrees, “Alright, man, it’s your head.” They slap hands on it, and the topic is closed for the moment.

******

At the waterfront, in full view of other people walking, jogging, and bicycling along the path, Coleman stands on a cement platform, and makes slow, dreamy movements, seeming to mimic the wind, or the ocean, or something.

Gena flushes red and uses her hand to shield her eyes from the spectacle. “I can’t look at this.”

Ike looks on, admiring the way his best friend doesn’t seem to care who is watching or what they might think. “Well, he seems to believe what he says, and I certainly admire his conviction,” he says diplomatically, “but I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

“I think he’s going to ask me to do it with him,” she murmurs, apprehension in her hazel eyes.

“Then, I’d worry,” Ike concedes with a nod.

Gena turns back to look at her husband and feels utterly untethered.

Later that night, the couple lies in bed, side by side, each lost in their own thoughts. Gena looks over to see Coleman with a lock of his hair between his fingers. “You know, every hair you lose, you pull out yourself.”

When he looks at his wife, he notices she’s engaged similarly. “Well, you’re tugging your lip. What’s bothering you?”

Throwing her hands up, Gena opens with, “You know, when two people live together for forty-six years, they deserve to know what they can expect from one another.”

“That’s true,” Coleman agrees with a little nod. “You always said you liked adventure,” he argues.

“Oh, but that was trips to Pennsylvania or New Jersey. I’m not so sure about this.” She looks at her hands in her lap.

“Well, then, why did you play that little game with me tonight? Because you wanted to pacify a foolish old man?” He looks at her doubtfully, but unflinchingly.

Gena reflects on their coordinated meditation exercise earlier in the study, how she tried to concentrate and match Coleman’s movements with her own. It felt strange and a little silly, but it also felt… important, profound, somehow bigger than themselves. Still, she can’t entirely convince herself that what she felt wasn’t forced.

“I don’t know,” she says finally.

Coleman takes her hand in both of his. “I love you, dear woman, and I want us to be together in this life as long as nature permits.”

She smiles brightly. “That’s why. Because you’re a charmer.”

He waggles his eyebrows at her, turns out the bedside light, and kisses his wife passionately.

“Don’t you dare!” Gena yelps, laughing, as he rolls on top of her.

“Go with it. Let the games begin,” he croons.

******

The next couple of days are calm and pleasant.

While life as usual progresses at the high school, with Pete continuing to pine over Patrick, Gabe continuing to lord his seeming ownership of the boy over everyone he knows, and everyone continuing to ignore as much of their schoolwork as the possibly can.

Meanwhile, Coleman is working extra hard to romance Gena and win her over. He has roses sent to her at the house while he’s over at Ike and Sheila’s, and he takes her out on the most perfect date he can think of. They have a romantic dinner, walk along the water, drink good wine, and even have a ride in a horse and carriage.

That same night, Patrick is practicing with the school orchestra. His face is tight with concentration, his delicate wrists twisting gracefully as he taps out the rhythm on his snare. Gabe, Andy, and a few of their friends are hanging out while Gabe watches Patrick with intense interest.

“Look, I’m bored,” Andy gripes. “Forget Pete and Joe. Let’s just go!”

“Hey, would you relax? They’ll be here. Parental bullshit,” Gabe scolds. Andy just rolls his eyes and hangs back while Gabe continues to bore holes in his boyfriend’s head with his eyes.

Band practice ends without incident, but also without the arrival of Pete and Joe. As the crew leaves the school, Gabe takes a sip from his flask and throws an arm around Patrick. Patrick tries not to wince, but he isn’t sure how successful he is.

“Alright, see you guys later,” Gabe says pointedly. After a few seconds, he realizes he and Patrick still aren’t alone and says, “Whoa, I said ‘later’, _Andy_.” Andy and Meredith turn off down one of the sidewalks, and Gabe hugs Patrick tighter against himself as they walk on.

On the other side of town, Pete and Joe are trying to hurry toward the school, knowing how unbelievably late they are. Joe is very stoned, and running isn’t really his strong suit. “They’re gonna leave without us,” he whines.

“Well, you’re the one who wanted to smoke a bowl. You can deal with Gabe when he tries to ream us out,” Pete snipped.

“Yeah, right,” Joe scoffed. “He’s too busy trying to ream Patrick’s ass to worry about ours.”

“ _Patrick_ ,” Pete breathes. “Come on, we gotta run.”

Joe scoffs. “You run. I’ll catch up.”

So Pete takes off in his best soccer sprint, trying to cover the distance to the school before Patrick leaves with everyone. (With _Gabe_ , more accurately.)

******

Gena laughs wildly and tries to form words. “Oh, wow, two blocks! ‘I’ss’a mir’cle we made i’home! That’s the las’ time I’mma drink tha’ much as long as I live.” 

“Thass easy for you to say,” Coleman slurs as he unlocks the door and lets them into the house. 

After they’ve changed into their pajamas and bathrobes, they make their way back down to the backyard. 

“Come on! Just… help me a little,” Coleman begs, pulling Gena by the wrist. 

“Oh, Coleman, we had such a lovely night. Don’t spoil it,” she chides, but she still follows him. “OK, OK, just promise me if I do this with you, you’ll never bring it up again.

“I promise,” Coleman says, resigned.

******

Patrick bites his lip and doesn’t meet Gabe’s eyes. “I know, you promise, but... why? Why _should_ I?” He can feel his heart hammering in his ears.

They sit alone on a picnic table in the park a few blocks from the school. It’s dark, and the only sounds are their breathing and the crickets. Gabe holds both of Patrick’s legs across his lap, and one of his hands against his chest.

Gabe squeezes his hand tighter. “I need this, _corazón_. I need _you_. I love you.”

******

Gena gives a bemused little laugh. “I love you, too, but I’m still cold out here.” After a moment, during which Coleman poses her properly, she asks, “Why can’t we go back inside?”

As he backs away a couple of feet and mirrors her, he explains, “Because we’re closer to nature. Feel the energy of the Earth flow up through your legs and your arms…” he intones, and they begin to move together in synchronicity.

******

Patrick straddles Gabes lap and kisses his mouth, noting the seemingly permanent taste of whiskey on it, then tentatively moves to his jaw and neck. One of Gabe’s hands is on his ass, and the other is skimming the hem of his t-shirt. Gabe tilts his head back to expose his neck, sighs contentedly, and then slides his hand up under Patrick’s shirt.

“Feels so good,” Gabe whispers, tracing his fingertips up to Patrick’s nipple, grazing it lightly. It stiffens under his touch, and Patrick gasps and grips his shoulders tighter. Gabe just gives a satisfied little laugh. “Getting hard for me, huh, babe?”

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut. It does feel good in a way he’s never known before—someone _else_ touching such a sensitive spot instead of his own hand—but it also scares him just a little. He likes Gabe, sure, but he’s just not sure he wants to be quite this intimate with someone he’s not really sure he can trust. Still, he worries about what will happen if he tries to stop him, so he buries his face in Gabe’s neck and lets it happen.

******

“Start to feel like the roots of a tree,” Coleman says serenely.

“You feel like a root; I feel like a sap,” Gena quips.

Coleman is undeterred. “Just relax and let it flow through you.”

“Stop talking and close your eyes,” she says, although her own eyes are closed.

He thinks a moment on how in tune she is with him, smiles a little, and then closes his eyes. 

As soon as he does, there’s a palpable surge of energy through both of them.

“Coleman,” Gena marvels, “it’s working!”

******

“No, it’s not, Gabe,” Patrick says, panic and frustration mixing inside him. The bigger boy is trying to get his hand inside Patrick’s jeans, and Patrick just can’t go through with it. He just _can’t_.

“Relax,” Gabe orders, pulling his zipper down. 

Patrick tries to grab his wrist. “Stop telling me to relax! I don’t—”

Gabe grabs Patrick’s hand instead and shakes him a little. “Just go with it,” he says a little more firmly. “Come on.”

“Stop it!” Patrick finally snaps. He pushes Gabe roughly, pries himself loose, and gets on his bike. As he’s pedaling away, he hears Gabe call his name, getting angrier each time, but also farther behind him. He stands up and pumps his legs as hard as he can to gain speed.

Pete is still running, everything forgotten but finding Patrick—seeing his face, hearing his voice, maybe actually getting to look into his eyes and see Patrick looking back at him. And maybe, just _maybe_ , even see Patrick smile or hear him laugh. The thought pushes him onward, and it distracts him so much as he turns into the old couple’s yard that he sees neither them in their strange poses, nor Patrick careening full-speed at him from the opposite direction on his bike.

The crash seems to echo in Pete’s head when they hit, and they’re both flung to the ground, the wheel of Patrick’s ten-speed clicking away somewhere nearby.

******

There are three people looming over him when he opens his eyes: a woman in glasses, a bathrobe, and curlers; a man with grey hair in a bathrobe eating Oreos, and a teenaged boy with bleach-blond hair and a lip ring. The woman looks worried, the man looks annoyed, and the teenager looks mostly dopey. He doesn’t know any of them, and he doesn’t recognize the room in which he finds himself. 

“Where am I?” he asks weakly. 

The man rolls his eyes. “Great. Tell him he’s home, Dale,” he mutters to the woman. 

“Who are you? Who’s he? Who’s she? Where am I?” The questions fly out of his mouth, each one slightly more panicked than the last.

“Oh, my Lord, Peter, he’s got amnesia!” the woman—‘Dale’, apparently—whines. 

The boy grins and flips his lip ring back and forth. “Hey, Pete, it’s me, Joe, remember?” 

“Where’s Gena?” he asks, looking back and forth between the three strangers. 

Joe frowns. “Who’s Gena?” 

Dale tilts her head. “Maybe he has a girlfriend,” she suggests. 

“No, ma’am, he does have a girlfriend. Her name is Jeanae,” Joe supplies. 

“He has a girlfriend,” Dale repeats. 

“No, he doesn’t have any girlfriend. I would know about it. He’s on drugs,” the man, ‘Peter’, declares.

Joe looks at Peter and lies through his teeth. “Don’t look at me sir. I’m totally clean.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend. I’m talking about the love of my life!” he cries, frantic.

Joe sighs and rolls his eyes. “Do you mean Patrick?” 

Peter turns to Joe in obvious annoyance. “Who the hell is Patrick?” 

Joe doesn’t miss a beat. “Patrick’s Gabe’s boyfriend, sir.” 

“Who’s Patrick?” he asks, getting up. He is distantly aware of Joe’s observation that this is worse than they thought as he goes to the mirror. 

Coleman stares in horror at himself—or, more accurately, at the tattooed little shithead who wrecks his lawn and mouths off to him every day. There’s a small bandage on his head covering a minor gash. He puts a hand to his face, and the shithead in the mirror does the same thing. 

“Oh, my God,” he murmurs. “I’m _him_.” He looks back at the people who are ostensibly the shithead’s parents and best friend, and around the unfamiliar room. “Shit!” he curses, then runs out of the house. 

Coleman hears Peter sent Joe after him as he’s slamming the door, but he doesn’t care. He has to find out what happened to Gena. 

Their yard is empty when he gets there, and the house is dark. Confused and scared as he is, though, Coleman can’t help relishing how good it feels to just run without pain or getting winded. Having a young body has its benefits, to be sure. When he lifts the birdhouse by their stairs to get the spare key, there’s suddenly a flashlight in his eyes. 

A stern male voice calls out, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, you rotten little buttwad?” 

Without thinking, he tries, “Hey, Jack, it’s me, Cole—” 

Jack cuts him off. “Get out of there, and don’t come back, or I’m gonna call your parents.” 

So, Coleman gives up and goes home, or back to this little shithead’s house, with his incredibly odd parents. When he opens the door and enters the foyer, they’re pacing back and forth and chittering nervously, no doubt about him, but they stop immediately when they see him. 

“Honey?” Dale says tentatively. 

“Mom?” It feels strange to call a woman half his age ‘Mom’, but Coleman figures he should play along for now, until he can figure out what the hell is going on. 

His ‘parents’ exchange a look, and Peter says to Dale, “It’s a start.” 

“Where’s my room?” he asks sheepishly, and Dale points up the stairs. “That’s what I thought.” He runs up the stairs—again, partially for the sheer joy of it—and tries a couple of doors before he finds what must be the shithead’s bedroom. 

It is, in a word, awful. It barely even fits the definition of the word ‘bedroom’. It’s messy, it smells like sweat and old food, and the only thing on which he could ostensibly sleep is basically a cot. Coleman stretches out and finds it’s not nearly as uncomfortable as it looks, and he thinks it’s in no small part because he is now seventeen, instead of being in his seventies. Still, he’s surprised when he manages to fall asleep in the strange surroundings, both the house and the body.

******

 _“Coooooooooolemaaaaaaaaaan,” a voice croons, echoing and seemingly disembodied._

_Coleman opens his eyes, and finds himself sprawled on his own lawn, although it’s littered with garbage, and streams of toilet paper hang from the trees. He’s in his pajamas and bathrobe again. “Hey, Pops! Welcome to Dreamland, where you get to live my life!” He stands up and looks around for the source of the voice. “Here I am, over here! Don’t you see me?” it asks sarcastically._

_Finally, Coleman sees the little shithead. **Pete.** He’s leaning against the trunk of a tree with an annoying little smirk on his face. “Oh, no, it’s you!”_

_Shithead points at himself. “Me?”_

_“You!” Coleman says more emphatically, pointing and stepping closer to him._

_Pete points at Coleman. “Me.”_

_“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Coleman lamented. “I don’t understand.”_

_The kid scoffs. “Obviously. So, let’s get something straight.” He points a finger directly into Coleman’s chest. “You are now Pete Wentz the Third, seventeen-year-old delinquent and perennial screw-up. You’re failing all your classes, you’re in love with your friend’s boyfriend, and that ‘friend’ is an alcoholic and a controlling asshole who will not hesitate to smash you into a sticky paste if he finds out how you feel. You’re confused, directionless, and self-destructive. Good luck.”_

_Coleman peers at Pete, who folds his arms and regards him smugly. “What do you know about all this?” he asks suspiciously._

_“Not much,” Pete says with a shrug of one shoulder. “I’m just a kid stuck in a crazy dream, and I don’t even think it’s mine.”_

_“Well, it certainly isn’t mine,” Coleman rebuts._

_Pete laughs at him. “Well, I’m not the one who was dicking around with reality here, Pops.”_

_Coleman has had about enough. “Look, if you’d just stayed off my property like I’ve told you every day since God was a boy, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”_

_“Oh, yeah, this is **my** fault, right? Nothing’s on you? I doubt Gena agrees with that.” Pete cocks an eyebrow._

_That is the magic word. “You’ve seen her? Where is she?”_

_Pete jerks a thumb at the house. “She's in there, just packing up some last-minute things.”_

_“Packing?” Coleman cries. He runs up onto the porch, tries the door, then digs his house key out of his bathrobe pocket. It slides home but doesn’t turn._

_“That doesn’t work here, Pops” the kid says like Coleman should have known. “This is a dream, remember?”_

_Coleman goes to one of the windows. Sure enough, Gena is in the dining room, taping a box shut. “Why doesn’t she see me? How do I get to her?” he asks, hands on the glass._

_“Well, the thing is, she wasn’t as devoted to the experiment as you were, so...” Pete gestures mockingly to the window._

_“So she’s leaving me?” Coleman asks, heartbroken._

_Pete looks away for a moment, seeming to contemplate the wood floor of the porch, then says, “Maybe not, but you have to find the other part of her soon. The part that’s where you are.”_

_“But where am I?” the old man queries._

_“I don’t know,” Pete says with a shrug, “but wherever you are, wake up soon, or I’m gonna be late for school.”_

******

Coleman wakes up back in Pete’s body. He’s disappointed, but determined. He has a goal: find the part of Gena that’s here, where he is. He takes it to mean she’s inside one of the other kids, possibly even someone Pete knows. Even if it’s not, he feels like he’ll know her when he finds her. 

It takes some trial and error, but eventually he finds something more or less appropriate to wear. He figures it probably shouldn’t surprise him that the only tie in Pete’s closet is a hideous novelty thing with ducks on it. He skips it and just settles for a muted button-down, casual-looking sport jacket, jeans, and sneakers. 

Pete’s hair is an entirely different animal. Once it’s washed, it suddenly springs out in wild curls, and Coleman has absolutely no idea how the kid ever gets it looking like it did yesterday. He tries to comb it down as much as he can, but it just keeps springing back up, like it has a mind of its own. He never thought he’d miss his own fine, white hair, but he finds that he is both impressed and sympathetic that Pete somehow straightens all this every day. 

He heads downstairs and into the kitchen, where Pete’s parents are having breakfast, which seems to consist of sugary cereal, and some conglomeration of lard and cheese. 

Coleman wrinkles his nose and says, “You’re not gonna consume that, are you?” 

Peter and Dale stare blankly at each other, then back at Pete. 

With a shrug, Dale says to Peter, “Is he feeling better? Ask him if he wants a Pop-Tart.” 

Coleman looks back and forth between the two of them incredulously. “You’re Peter, right?” he asks his would-be father, who nods. He turns to his ‘mother’ and says, “And you’re Dale?” She also nods dumbly. “OK, well, I’ll see you two later.” With that, he takes a banana from the fruit bowl and heads outside. 

Joe is sitting at the edge of his yard on the low stone wall, waiting for him. “Did your flat-iron catch fire again?” he asks, eyes on Pete’s mop of curls. 

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Coleman says, his hand going up to his head sheepishly. 

“And you ran out of eyeliner?” Joe presses. 

Coleman shrugs and decides to change the subject. “You’re Joe, right?” 

Joe nods. “Right. Me Joe, you Pete,” he says slowly. “Me look cool, you look like shit, pal. But it’s OK. We’ll call it a fashion statement, or something.”

“‘We traffic in mockery.’ -Hicks, 1928,” Coleman says, as though Joe will think this makes him cool or at all a normal kid.

“Sure,” Joe drawls, eyeing ‘Pete’ like he’s headed for a straitjacket. “Just, like, don’t talk today, OK?”

Coleman rolls his eyes. “Yeah, great. Can we just go now?”

Joe seems to accept this bit of attitude as an indication that his best friend is in there somewhere, and they head off to school.

When they turn into the Ettingers’ yard, Coleman starts in on Joe without thinking. “Hey, how many times have I told you that this is private property?” 

“Pete, you’re starting to sound like that old man!” Joe gripes. 

“I’m sorry,” Coleman says. “I just want to show some proper respect, that’s all.” 

“Oh, please,” Joe grouses. “You need to loosen up. When’s the last time you got laid?” 

Suddenly needing to change the subject, Coleman looks up at the house. “Hey, look, the old couple is gone.” 

Joe follows his gaze. “Good. Maybe they’re gone forever, so we don’t have to listen to their griping anymore.” 

“Would you shut up?” Coleman snaps. 

“Relax!” Joe admonishes, dragging him onward.

When they turn into the main hallway of the high school, Coleman nearly faints. There are kids _everywhere_ , and they’re just... roaming around, yelling, climbing on each other, and throwing things. It’s complete and utter chaos, nothing like what Coleman remembers when he was in school. 

“Whoa, calm day,” Joe observes. 

Coleman’s breathing picks up even more. _This is calm?!_ “Where’s the lavatory?” 

“Lava-what?” Joe looks at him like he’s been speaking Greek. 

“Lavatory,” Coleman repeats. 

“Oh, bathroom, right? It’s up there.” Joe has barely even lifted his arm to point before ‘Pete’ has taken off like a bat out of hell. Joe shrugs. “Wow. Some people gotta go, they gotta go.” 

Coleman splashes water on his face and hopes against hope that he will open his eyes to find himself back in his own bathroom in his own house. Sadly, he towels off his face and sees that he’s still surrounded by metal stalls stained with layers upon layers of graffiti, his nostrils still full of the lovely combined stenches of sweat, cigarette smoke, and apparent inability to operate a simple flush lever. 

As soon as he emerges back into the hallway, he’s cornered by the tallest person he’s ever seen. The boy has olive skin, dark eyes, and hair almost as high as Pete’s, except that this boy actually collected it up that way on purpose. He’s apparently furious with Pete, as evidenced by the way he snarls and grabs the front of his shirt, and also quite possibly drunk, if his breath is any indication. 

“Hey, you’ll wanna watch where you’re going from now on,” the tall boy warns. “Last night, you hurt Patrick. You do it again, I’m gonna hurt you. Got it?”

Coleman nods. “Got it.” 

“And... if your flat-iron still works, I’d like you to use it,” the boy says, pointing at Pete’s unruly hair. 

“OK,” Coleman says dumbly. 

The tall boy straightens the button-down shirt. “Now, the least you could do, apart from finding clothes from this century, is apologize,” he says, tone much more civil, as he points down the hall to a short, pale boy with red-gold hair. 

“Apologize,” Coleman repeats, and then points. “Him?” The tall boy nods at him slowly, as though Coleman were very, very stupid. “OK,” he says, unsure if anything is actually going to be OK ever again, and starts slowly down the hall toward the boy. 

The very unreasonably _pretty_ boy with soft, kind features, not the least of which is a very nice-looking mouth. Coleman swears to himself that the only reason he notices is because the boy is tugging on his bottom lip. 

_Gena!_ his mind screams. He tries to smooth the springy curls on his head, sighs with resignation, and finally just approaches the boy. _Patrick_ , he reminds himself. 

“Hello,” Coleman says politely, tugging absently on a section of Pete’s curly hair. 

Patrick jumps and whirls around, but his expression smooths over immediately. “Oh, it’s you,” he says, and his voice is soft and dulcet. He even resembles Gena a bit, if she were a boy. 

“Yeah, um, may I speak with you for a moment?” he asks. 

“What happened?” Patrick retorts, holding up his wrist, which is wrapped in an ace bandage. He looks incredibly sad about his injury, more than annoyed. 

Coleman shrugs. “I’m not sure.” 

Patrick gives a shrill little chuckle. “Well, neither am I,” he says defensively, as though Coleman might think he should be. 

He peers into Patrick’s eyes, hoping for some flicker of recognition in them. “Do you know who I am?” 

“Do... do you know who I am?” Patrick asks, backing his head away a little. 

“I really hope so,” Coleman says, perhaps a bit dramatically. 

Patrick smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Me, too,” he says. 

Coleman apparently misses the slight note of facetiousness in the comment, because he grabs Patrick’s upper arms and immediately starts rambling. “Gena, it is you! I’m so sorry about the experiment—” 

“Who’s Gena?” Patrick asks, pulling himself out of ‘Pete’s’ grasp and looking at him like he’s completely insane. 

The tall boy chooses that moment to return. “Hey, I figured you two would catch up with each other eventually,” he says smoothly, and kisses Patrick on the mouth. 

Coleman only has a moment to put it all together and realize that the tall boy who threatened him and then acted like nothing happened is Gabe, before he’s grabbed by the elbow and yanked very unceremoniously away. 

“I’ve got to talk to you right now!” a female voice says. He’s slammed into a locker by a pretty girl with long, thick, multicolored hair. “Now how are you gonna get us out of this? I had to go along with you, and you had to get me involved!” She jabs a finger into his chest as she tears into him. 

He hugs her and says, “I’ll get us out of this, I swear, just as long as we have each other.” 

“Knock it off. This isn’t the time,” she snaps, pulling away. 

“But, Gena, I’m so glad you found me!” Coleman says, his eyes pleading for her to forgive him for their current predicament. 

“Gena?!” she cries, even angrier. “Who is Gena? Look, why don’t you have _her_ do your homework, and then _she_ can get in trouble for you, and then maybe _she_ can be your date for the dance on Saturday?” she begins to storm off, then turns back to him. “Some ‘accidents’ aren’t accidents. They’re bad karma, Pete. God punishes people, and don’t forget that.” 

Coleman tries to go after her, but Joe is there, grabbing him bodily and turning him around. “Hey, relax, there’s plenty of time for that,” he says lazily, then pulls him by the arm to class with him. 

When he turns back to look down the hall, though, he sees Patrick standing there tugging his lip and panicking, trying to remember his locker combination, and he knows he’s found the piece of Gena that isn’t in the dream world. 

Between trying to find his seat, knocking over Joe’s books in the process, and then actually having to sit through the droning of the teacher about significant integers or some other totally pointless thing that Coleman doesn’t understand, the sound of the bell simply can’t come fast enough. 

When he gets back to where he’d last seen Patrick, he’s relieved to find the boy there, still fussing with his locker. 

“You know, Wentz, it’s really weird when you can’t remember your own locker combination,” Patrick complains with an eyeroll. 

Coleman hums contemplatively. “There must be a lot of things you don’t remember, right?”

Patrick scoffs and frowns at him. “Well, I might not be a genius, but I’m doing alright in school, which is more than I can say for _some_ people.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” Coleman chides. 

“Well, what _do_ you mean?” Patrick presses, agitated, and tugs on his bottom lip. 

Coleman shrugs and says, “Well, like, how long have you been tugging your lip?” 

“I don’t,” Patrick says indignantly, but then his eyes dart downward to his fingers, and he blushes and drops his hand. Coleman arches an eyebrow. “Well, what does that have to do with anything? Why are you being so weird?” 

“Look, I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk to you.” Coleman sighs heavily and looks at the ground. 

Patrick looks around quickly. “I can’t, OK? I’m sorry about the accident and everything, but I can’t talk. I have to go.” 

“Maybe later, then?” Coleman calls after him, tugging at his hair. 

“I don’t know, maybe,” Patrick says without turning around, then beings to walk faster. 

Coleman watches him leave and thinks that maybe Pete’s onto something for wanting to get him away from Gabe, but also right to be afraid to do anything. Gabe is trouble, and Coleman can tell from a mile away.

******

The rest of the day goes on in much the same interminable fashion, and Coleman swears he can actually feel his IQ dropping with each passing hour. _How anyone can pass this slop off as ‘education’, I’ll never understand. No wonder Pete and his friends don’t care about school. I wouldn’t have cared, either, if I were forced to memorize all of these loads of tripe just for the sake of regurgitating it on a test well enough to earn the right grade and just get the hell out of here._

He looks around at the other children. Some are diligently taking notes, but a good percentage are just doodling, passing notes to each other, or just staring out the windows, seemingly lost in their own thoughts and dreams. 

**_Ignorance is the only slavery._** _Robert Green Ingersoll, 1976_ , he thinks glumly. _But none of you will realize that until you’re out of high school_. 

At the end of the day, which to Coleman feels like more than the span of his entire life, he tries to track down Patrick so they can talk some more. _I’ve got to make her remember. **Him** remember. Ugh, whatever,_ Coleman thinks, and smirks to himself as he notices his vernacular starting to sound a little more juvenile. 

He waits at the main doors of the school, and though he doesn’t see Patrick, he does see Gabe, which makes his palms sweat and his heart rate increase, and not in any good way. 

“Hey, Pete,” Gabe says casually, and claps his shoulder. “What’s going on?” 

“Nothing,” Coleman answers hurriedly. “Just... chilling?” He picks this word from the slang he’s heard others using, and hopes it’s correct. 

Gabe’s easy, charming smile makes Coleman think that it is. “Cool. I’m heading home, if you wanna walk, maybe hang out?” 

Something in those dark eyes tells Coleman that ‘hanging out’ with Gabe, whatever that might entail, is actually a terrible idea. “Well, I mean, I have some things I gotta do in a little bit,” he hedges, hoping Gabe will beg off and leave. 

“Oh, OK,” Gabe mumbles, looking away. “I’ll, uh, I’ll just—” 

“Is everything OK?” Coleman asks, and puts a hand on Gabe’s arm. He tries to meet the taller boy’s eyes, but he flinches and pulls away from the touch. 

“Yeah. I mean, no need to get all After-School-Special on me. I just wanted to say I’m sorry about this morning.” Gabe doesn’t exactly meet ‘Pete’s’ eyes as he says this, save a quick glance. 

“That’s quite alright,” Coleman says with a dismissive wave. Gabe doesn’t leave, though, so Coleman inquires, “Is something else on your mind?” 

With a sigh, Gabe says, “Um, yeah, kinda. Have you fucked Jeanae yet?” 

“Have I _what_?” Coleman yelps, surprised at the outright vulgarity of the question. 

“Fucked. You know, _had sex with her_?” Gabe enunciates mockingly. 

“I know what it means, Gabe,” Coleman snips. “And... I don’t think so.” He tries to frame it like an admission of guilt, since Coleman is betting that Gabe is someone who thinks sex is something boys are owed from their girlfriends ( _or boyfriends_ , he reminds himself), and not getting it is definitely not a good thing to him. 

Gabe sighs and shakes his head. “Yeah, I hear you, man. It’s like, Patrick’s not being very... cooperative, you know? It’s driving me crazy.” 

“I don’t know if I’m the right guy to ask about this,” Coleman says, tugging at one of his curls. 

“Well, who else am I gonna ask? Joe?” Gabe scoffs. 

Coleman shrugs and tries, “Well, maybe you’re not his type?” 

Gabe gives a little laugh. “I’m everyone’s type. Jesus, even his mother likes me. I mean, I could have anyone else in school on their knees begging for it, but... Patrick is, like, just stonewalling me left and right, and I can’t figure him out.” 

“Well, maybe you should leave him alone and...” Coleman winces, “ _fuck_ someone else. I mean, you don’t care for him, obviously, or you’d be trying harder to _understand_ him, instead of just get in his pants.” 

“What’s gotten into you, Wentz? I mean, if we hadn’t been friends this long, I’d knock you out! Do you understand that?” Gabe yells, punching his opposite palm for emphasis. 

Unfazed, Coleman says, “Yeah, I understand that, though I did warn you that you might not want to talk to me about this.” 

Gabe drops his hands. “I know. Sorry, it just hurt.” 

“OK. Sorry,” Coleman says, and the boys shake hands. 

“Hey, I gotta go, but um, y’know, I’ll talk to you later.” With that, he heads off, leaving Coleman alone on the steps. 

The exodus of kids has dwindled to only one or two every few minutes, so he figures Patrick must still be somewhere inside. He runs through the halls, checking every classroom, until he hears music. It’s off-rhythm and slightly out of tune in some spots, but it’s music, nonetheless. He follows the sound to the auditorium, where the school band is practicing. 

Patrick stands behind a row of snares, alternating between squinting at the page in front of him and looking at the other percussionists around him. When he tries to hit the drums, he winces, and Coleman surmises at least part of his trouble is his injured wrist, but he also seems to be attempting to tap a beat at the wrong times, from the way the others keep turning and staring. Finally, Patrick puts his sticks down, gives a look to the conductor, who nods, and he leaves. 

He spots ‘Pete’ in one of the seats at the back of the auditorium and gives a friendly smile. Coleman realizes he’s twirling a lock of hair between his fingers, and immediately stops when Patrick’s eyes go upward toward it. 

“How long have you been tugging your hair?” Patrick asks with a smirk. 

“As long as I can remember,” Coleman replies easily. 

Patrick cocks an eyebrow. “So... not that long, huh?” 

Coleman finds himself laughing, and is somehow still surprised to hear Pete’s voice doing it. It’s low and a little guttural, but it makes Patrick grin bashfully and turn his face away for a second. 

“Leaving early?” Coleman asks with a nod toward the band. 

“Yeah,” Patrick sighs, looking wistfully back at the stage. “I guess I’m not a very good drummer anymore.” 

“Eh, I bet it’ll come back. Anyway, I need to talk to you about the accident,” Coleman begins. 

Patrick cuts him off, his expression suddenly apprehensive. “Look, I can’t right now. Um,” he casts about the room, tugging his bottom lip. “Come by my house later, OK? Like around 7? We can probably talk then.” 

“Probably?” Coleman repeats as Patrick runs out the door. _That kid is seriously spooked,_ Coleman observes, but then figures there’s something he can do in the meantime.

As he gets to the sidewalk, though, he’s hit with the pungent scent of weed, and Joe is there, sticking an arm out in a lazy wave.

“You always seem to find me,” Coleman observes.

Joe stands up and throws an arm around ‘Pete’s’ shoulders. “What are friends for, right?”

Coleman thinks for a moment. “Best friends, right?”

“Right,” Joe drawls, “and as your best friend, I have question for you.”

“And what might that be?” Coleman really does not want to carry the same odor Joe does, but he tries to abide the close contact graciously.

Joe smirks. “That might be, Peter, what’s going on with you and Mr. Stumph?”

“Oh, uh, we’re just friends.” _For now._

“That’s good. That’s really smart, ‘cause, y’know, Gabe is really, really crazy about that young man. In fact, he’s, uh, a little on the edge when it comes to him. So, if you wanna stay healthy, take a lot of Flintstones vitamins, and stay away from Patrick, OK?”

Coleman nods. “Your concerns are duly noted,” he hedges, “but I have to go take care of something right now, so I’ll catch you later, OK?”

Joe eyes him suspiciously. “You’re not going to see…”

“No,” Coleman answers immediately. “I just need to be alone for a while.”

“OK,” Joe mumbles, sounding hurt. He removes his arm, backs away a step, and shrugs. He’s clearly trying to sound nonchalant, but it’s not working.

Coleman claps Joe on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Everything’s OK. And thank you.”

“For what?” Joe cocks an eyebrow.

“For being my friend and looking out for me. I really appreciate it.” He tries an easy smile, which feels odd when he’s using someone else’s face.

Joe lights up a little bit at that, though. “Hey, not just any friend. The best. Don’t forget.”

****** 

Ike’s house isn’t quite as big as Coleman’s, and it’s quaint in a slightly more casual way. Coleman has always thought the house suited Ike, seeing as how he’s sweet and practical, very salt-of-the-earth, and far less pretentious and grandiose than Coleman himself. **_Nosce te ipsum_** , Coleman thinks with a small smile. _A man must know his own faults._

He paces back and forth on the back patio in Pete’s sneakers, marveling at the fact that it’s after four and he hasn’t needed a nap. 

“My daughter tells me it is on a matter of great importance that you’ve come to talk to me. What do you got for me this time, water balloons?” Ike says in a lazy way that reminds Coleman of Pete’s friend Joe. 

“Ike! Am I glad to see you!” Coleman says immediately, grabbing his friend’s shoulders. 

Nonplussed, Ike nods slowly and replies, “Well, I’m happy to see you, too?” 

“Ah, but you’re gonna be even happier in a second.” Coleman shakes Ike a little bit in his excitement, which does nothing to ease Ike’s confusion and suspicion. 

“Well, I only get so happy, and then I peak,” he deadpans. 

They sit in the chairs nearby, and Coleman immediately goes into lecture mode. “Ike, you have to listen to me, and use all your faculties. You have to open your mind and really believe in what I’m about to tell you.” 

Ike regards the sloppy teenaged boy before him skeptically. “You’re working for the Young Republicans?”

“This isn’t effective,” Coleman laments, then gestures for his best friend to lean in closer and look him in the eyes. “Ike, it’s me, your best friend, Coleman.” Ike only blinks slowly in disbelief, so Coleman barrels on into it. “Gena and I tried the experiment, but it didn’t work. I don’t know what happened, but I got trapped in this body, and I can’t get out. And I had this dream—” 

“Oh, come on,” Ike says. “Coleman put you up to this, didn’t he?” 

“No! Look, would I know this?” He stands up and runs through some of his meditative movements, the ones he used for the experiment, then sits back down. 

Ike shrugs. “Coleman could have shown you that.” 

Coleman thinks for a moment, tugging on one of his curls, then an idea hits. “OK, OK, remember the story you told me about the two dancing Filipino girls on your first shore leave in Manila?” Ike’s face goes slack in disbelief, or perhaps the beginnings of belief. “I never believed you, right?” Coleman urges. 

“That’s a true story,” Ike murmurs, eyes wide. 

Coleman nods. “Ike, I’m willing to believe you, but you’ve gotta be willing to believe me.” 

Just then the door opens and a small, black poodle-mop-thing comes barreling outside. A pretty, blonde woman comes after him yelling, “Careful! He bites!” 

“Smudge!” Coleman cries excitedly, raising his arms and snapping his fingers. “Smudge! Come here!” The dog leaps into his lap and immediately starts licking his face while he pets the dog’s dark curls. He thinks that he must look a little like Smudge now, with this hair. “Hi, Sheila,” he says to the woman without thinking. 

“How’d you know my name?” she asks. 

Ike covers quickly, “Uh, I told him.” 

She looks again at the dog happily curled in this strange teenager’s lap. “You know, that’s amazing. That dog hates everybody.”

Ike looks at the kid, who just waggles his eyebrows and smirks. “Except Coleman,” he says, dazed. 

****** 

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” Patricia Stumph says coolly, taking a sip of wine. 

Patrick scowls at her across the dinner table. “No, I don’t. Why do you think you’re always supposed to just give in to a man?” 

“I'm sure Gabriel does the same for you every now and then,” Patricia says sardonically. “Giving in. To a man.”

With an epic eye roll, Patrick fires back, “You know what I mean. You did everything to please Dad, and what did he do? He just left you for someone else, anyway.” 

“Well, all I know is that Gabe is one of the few boys with a real future in this town,” Patricia lectures. “His parents are doing very well, and yes, he’s a little rough around the edges, but he’s smart, and he’ll go on to college.” 

“Mom, I’m in high school, who cares? So Gabe looks good on paper. That doesn’t mean I just put up and shut up.” Patrick is saved from further conversation on the topic by a knock at the door. “Or, if you have your way, put _out_ and shut up, I guess.” He gets up to answer the door. 

Patricia turns and calls after him, “Don’t you turn your back on me, young man!” 

Patrick opens the door, and ‘Pete’ is there, shifting from foot to foot. “Oh, hi, Pete,” he says sullenly. “Look, this isn’t a great time. I’m not in the best mood.” He shoots a look at his mother. 

“In that case, maybe you should come back when his teen years are over,” Patricia sneers. Coleman just stands there, looking back and forth between them helplessly. 

“Changed my mind. Let’s get out of here.” Patrick grabs his jacket. 

“Um, bye, Ms. Stumph,” Coleman says sheepishly. They step outside, and Patrick slams the door behind them. “Thanks for doing this,” he tries after they start walking. 

Patrick’s steps are quick and forceful. “Anything to get away from my mother.” 

Coleman tugs at a piece of hair. “Thanks, I’m flattered.” 

“I thought you said you wanted to talk.” Patrick stops to face him, and he’s tugging his lip. 

This is all the encouragement Coleman needs. “Yeah, I wanna show you something. Come on.” 

They go to the Ettinger house, and as soon as they cross onto the walkway, Patrick pauses. “What are we doing here?” 

“We’re going inside.” Coleman holds out his hand. 

“Pete, are you gonna hit me again?” Patrick half-jokes. 

Coleman laughs and reassures him. “No, I’m not gonna hit you again. Come on, it’s fine. There’s no one home.” 

Once they’re in the house, Patrick looks around. “This place is spooky. And why do you have a key?” 

"Um, I’m watching the house for the Ettingers while they’re out of town. Y’know, feeding their dog and stuff. And I think it’s nice here. Quiet, you know? I like to come here to be away from my parents.” He starts raiding the fridge as he talks. 

“Ew, Pete, that’s cold tofu,” Patrick says, wrinkling his nose. 

“I know. Finally, some real food. You want some?” He holds a piece out to Patrick, who recoils. Coleman just shrugs and finishes it, then takes the smaller boy’s hand and leads them upstairs. 

As they climb into increasing darkness, Patrick mumbles, “Not doing anything for the creep factor here.” 

Undeterred, Coleman opens the door to his study and turns on the light. There, on his blackboard, he’s written a note to Gena, hoping she’ll recognize it. 

_G-_   
_They gave each other a smile with a future in it._   
_-C_

Coleman sighs and tries to act like a disenchanted teenager. “Yeah, um, the old guy usually has some nonsense written here.” 

Patrick wonders at it, his features softening. “I think it’s sweet.” 

“Well, yeah, you’re right, it is sweet, but...” he scrambles for something that would sound cool and young, “...it’s usually a bunch of bullshit about energy and youth, or whatever.” 

“Seems harmless,” Patrick concludes with a shrug. 

They go back downstairs, and Patrick goes straight for the vinyl collection. _Musician, right_ , Coleman muses. Patrick selects one and puts it on the old Victrola. Frank Sinatra’s voice and mellow strings fill the room. 

“I love this song,” Patrick says dreamily. 

“I know,” Coleman replies, his voice dropping almost a full octave without his meaning it to. 

“I can’t remember where I’ve heard it before,” Patrick muses, then it’s his turn to hold out his hand. “Dance with me.” It isn’t a question. What can Coleman do but comply? 

The smaller boy fits easily into his embrace, and his blue eyes twinkle in the dim light while they sway to “Young At Heart” as though they’ve done it a hundred times. _We have_ , Coleman thinks, and tries with all his might to will the thought to the piece of Gena he knows is hiding inside Patrick. _Remember!_

When the song changes, Patrick pulls away and starts looking at the framed photos on the mantel. He stops at a particularly nice one of Gena, sitting on the stone wall outside the house and looking demurely up at the camera. 

“She’s beautiful,” he murmurs. 

Coleman’s always been a man who knows on which side his bread was buttered, and he’s never had anything against folks who preferred the other side. He just always felt it was none of his business what anyone else likes to do behind closed doors. Still, he feels like he knows himself and his preferences pretty well after all the years he’d been… him.

So, imagine his confusion and surprise when he feels something that he never would have expected bubbling up inside him at the sight of a handsome boy: _attraction_. He realizes it’s probably some remnant of Pete’s feelings, since Pete is inside him somewhere, able to see what he sees, feels what he feels. _Pete wants to kiss him_ , he thinks absently, _therefore I want to. We think, therefore we are._

Coleman knows he’s being ridiculous, foolhardy even, but when Patrick turns to him with his reddish hair, pale skin, blue-green eyes, and lovely, full mouth, Coleman blurts out, “So are you.” 

He puts a gentle, cautious hand to Patrick’s face, thumb caressing his cheek, and begins to lean in to fulfill this strange desire. Patrick is moving in, too, but just before their lips actually meet, he pulls back, face contorted with fear and guilt, and runs off. 

“Patrick!” Coleman calls after him, only barely holding off from saying his wife’s name. “Way to go, Coleman,” he mutters to himself. 

Not surprisingly, as soon as Patrick gets back to his house and the safety of his bedroom, the phone rings.

“Hey, Gabe. I can’t talk right now, but I’ll see you tomorrow, OK? Good night. Sweet dreams.”

******

Back in Pete’s room, Coleman is unsurprised to find that sleep doesn’t come easily that night. He’s a whirl of confusion, wondering how he can find himself drawn to someone who, mostly, isn’t Gena, and who, mostly, isn’t female. On top of that, he is so frustrated that Gena won’t wake up and remember him. She’s the love of his life; he can’t remember wanting anything besides a life with her. He can’t remember not wanting to hold her, hear her laugh, and comfort her when she’s troubled. 

And he always thought she felt the same. If she can’t feel him when he’s right there, inches away from the boy in whom she’s ostensibly trapped, does that mean she doesn’t _want_ to remember him anymore? 

Coleman busies himself tidying Pete’s room, which is, in no uncertain terms, a complete and utter disgrace. He thinks maybe he should be quieter, given the late hour, but Pete was right about his parents basically ignoring him, so he only puts in the barest effort there. Besides, the fact that it smells a whole lot better once he rids the space of all the junk is more than worth it. 

Pete’s desk is cluttered with piles of battered, used-up notebooks. He picks one up, thinking it will be old doodles and meager attempts at taking notes, but it isn’t. It’s... something like poetry, in a very stream-of-consciousness way. The thoughts and lines are fragmented, and yes, there are some rough sketches of images in the margins—an eye with a single tear, rainclouds with lightning, a heart with a knife in it, bats, skulls, musical notes—but they’re quite beautiful, if entirely heartbreaking. 

Coleman takes them to the cot, lies down, and begins leafing through them until sleep takes him.

******

_Coleman is back on his lawn in his pajamas and bathrobe, and Pete is sitting on his porch swing in a bizarre outfit that consists of a tux on the upper half, with a red bowtie, and red shorts and boots on the lower half. It showcases his slender, coltish, athlete’s legs. His hair is still perfectly flat against his head, and Coleman can’t help being a bit envious._

_"Oh, jubilation,” he grumbles, “here we are again.”_

_Pete narrows his eyes. “Yeah, thrilled to see you, too. Look, Pops, why don’t you do me a favor and stay out of my life?”_

_“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” Coleman scoffs, hoping Pete will see the irony of his own statement. “Where’s Gena? And don’t call me Pops!”_

_“Gena’s in the house, **Pops**.” Pete points at one of the windows._

_Coleman knocks frantically. “Gena! Gena!” She doesn’t respond, only keeps packing. Patrick moves around her, boxing up candlesticks and knickknacks. He sighs and gives up. “She still doesn’t remember me.”_

_Pete shrugs, seemingly indifferent. “I know, and you're running out of time.”_

_Realization dawns on the old man. “You know how to switch us back, don’t you?”_

_“Absolutely,” Pete answers, unapologetic. “As a matter of fact, it’s the very first thing I figured out about all this.” He polishes his black-painted nails on his tuxedo lapel._

_Coleman moves toward the swing, frustration building. “Well, then, let’s do it, now! Why didn't you tell me before?”_

_Pete regards him like the world’s biggest idiot. “Because I don’t **want** to.”_

_“But you have to! You have to get back to your own life, sooner or later!” Coleman tugs furiously on a piece of his hair, and is oddly grateful it’s his own white hair, instead of Pete’s._

_Pete stands up and faces the old man. “Actually, I don’t, thanks to you. And, hey, you were really onto something with this whole ‘living in a dream forever’ thing. This is way better than where I was.”_

_Coleman stares at the kid in disbelief. “Are you kidding? You have your whole life ahead of you! I only wanted to be here because I’m old and I don’t want to die!”_

_“Well, I want to stay here because I have my whole life ahead of me, and I don’t want to live!” Pete screams. His eyes well up, and he turns away. “You just don’t get it,” he murmurs, his voice shaking. “You have no idea what it’s like for me. I’m failing all my classes, my parents hate me, Jeanae hated me even before now for the way I blatantly used her, Patrick probably hates me now after what you pulled, and Gabe is undoubtedly gonna pummel me into next week for it. Pummel you. Whatever.”_

_"‘Show me a man who has enjoyed his school days, and I’ll show you a bully and a bore.’ -Robert Morley, 1958,” Coleman quotes as if this somehow makes the situation better._

_Pete just leans on the railing at the opposite end of the porch. “Up yours, and the horse you rode in on.”_

_Suddenly, Coleman looks at the floor between them and cries out in horror, “That isn’t a horse, that’s a sheep! Where’d it come from?”_

_“I don’t know! This is your sick dream, pal. And by the way, I’m not going back.” Pete crosses his arms like a petulant child._

_“What if I fixed everything?” Coleman asks._

_Pete scoffs. “Right. How are **you** gonna fix **my** life, Pops? You’ve screwed everything up worse than I ever did. You really just don’t know how to be a kid, do you?”_

_Coleman shakes his head. “I know I have no idea what it’s really like for you. I was a lousy kid even when I was a kid. I’m too cautious; I lack spontaneity. But, then again, maybe you need someone like me in charge of things for a bit.”_

_Pete laughs weakly. “You’re right, you do make a lousy kid. Here are some hints: Use my damned flat-iron. You gotta do something with my hair, because I look like shit, and everyone suspects something's up with me already. Um, quit eating the tofu shit. It’s disgusting, and no kid willingly eats cold tofu.”_

_“You could just tell me how to switch us back so you don’t have to coach me so much,” Coleman offers._

_“Nice try,” Pete retorts with a lopsided grin. “I suppose I could give you a hint about that too, even though it’s really not in my best interest, because I’m such a nice guy. It has nothing to do with physics, and it has nothing to do with states and systems and all that crap. And, honestly, if you weren’t so damned smart, you’d have figured this out already.”_

_“Alright, I guess I have my work cut out for me.” Coleman stands up with a groan._

_“Well, you’d better work fast, because they’re working fast. And you’d better make sure Gabe doesn’t know about you and Patrick, or ‘he’s gonna tear your playhouse down,’ Paul Young, 1986. See how annoying that is? Oh, and lastly: Wake up!” Pete touches two fingers to Coleman’s forehead, and the dream dissolves._

******

Coleman jolts awake on the cot. It's 5:55am. “Pete, you couldn’t have given me that last five minutes?” he groans. 

One of the notebooks is still open on his chest. He picks it up and decides to peruse it for a couple of minutes. What he sees when he turns the page makes his eyes go wide. 

_When I wake up_   
_I’m willing to take my chances on_   
_The hope I forget_   
_That you hate him more than you notice_   
_I wrote this for you_   
_Do you need him?_   
_I could be him_   
_I could be an accident but I’m still tryin_   
_And that’s more than I can say for him_

He leaps out of bed, hastily copies the whole thing onto a clean sheet of paper, stopping to silence the alarm once it begins blaring, and then goes to clean up and get ready for school.

The flat iron is a nightmare, but Coleman gets Pete’s springy locks to lie down, eventually.

******

Patrick is at his locker, still fussing with the combination lock, when Coleman sidles up and gives a sheepish grin. 

“Hello,” he says quietly. 

“Hi,” Patrick says flatly, without looking at him. 

Coleman shifts his weight back and forth and tugs on a lock of his hair that now hangs down over his forehead. “Look, I’m sorry about last night.” 

Patrick turns, leans his shoulder on the locker, and folds his arms. Coleman notices his hand moves toward his lip, but he seems to hold back from tugging deliberately. “The Ettingers don’t have a dog, and they never did.” His tone is even and cool. “I don’t appreciate you hitting on me, and I don’t think your best friend would, either, so why don’t you just go away?” 

“Patrick, I just... I really like you, and I wanted you to get to know me as a person, not just Gabe’s friend Wentz, or whatever.” Coleman sighs and looks away. 

Patrick gives in and begins tugging his lip, absorbing this, before he finally says, quietly, “I thought I knew you, Pete. And I do like you, but... not in that way.” He looks at the crook of his elbow as he says this. 

Coleman observes this, thinks Patrick might just be afraid to admit it even if he does feel something, and tries, “OK, fine. Can we please talk, though? Maybe after school, in a public place?” 

“I don’t think so,” Patrick replies a little too quickly, turning back to his locker. “Please, go.” His voice is pleading, and his face is flushed. Coleman’s pretty sure there are tears in his eyes, and the last thing he wants to do is scare the kid, so he does as requested. 

As soon as he’s at a corner, he ducks behind it and peers back around to see Patrick open his locker and find a folded piece of paper inside. He watches as Patrick unfolds the paper, reads it, and clutches it to his chest, jaw slack. Coleman knows that look. He’s seen it on Gena’s face, and that of any flutter-chested, metaphorically swooning young girl. Patrick looks around quickly, either for ‘Pete’ or to make sure Gabe doesn’t see, then folds it again and slips it in the pocket of his jeans before hurrying off to class.

Coleman smiles to himself, claiming this as a small victory.

******

After school, Coleman catches sight of Patrick, and then stops short and ducks around a corner before he could be noticed. He cranes back around to see Gabe caging the smaller boy against his locker with his spindly limbs, predatory smile on his face while he holds Patrick’s chin with his thumb and forefinger. Patrick is smiling and blushing, even laughing a little, but when Gabe dips his head to kiss Patrick’s cheek, Coleman sees the smile on his face falter. 

He moves completely out of view, feeling the slightest bit creepy for spying on a relatively intimate moment, but he feels his fists and his jaw tightening. _Patrick is afraid_ , he thinks. _He’s afraid of Gabe, and he’s afraid of what will happen if he leaves, or even remotely goes against him._

Coleman’s no white knight, by any stretch, but he knows right from wrong, and he knows you should never be afraid of the people you love. After a minute, he looks again and sees Patrick standing there alone, head down, seeming to catch his breath. He touches his back pocket, where he put the note this morning, and a small, honest smile touches his lips before he heads off down the hall. Coleman follows, but stays back a bit, and is not surprised to see Patrick go into the music room. 

The auditorium is dark, but there are a few lights shining on the stage as Patrick sits alone with an acoustic guitar on one knee, frowning at the music stand in front of him. He makes scribbles here and there, strums some chords, and hums a melody while Coleman watches from the back row, enraptured with the way Patrick’s pink tongue rests at the corner of his mouth as he thinks. 

After what couldn’t be more than a half-hour, he starts plucking in earnest, and when he opens his mouth, the voice that comes out is clear, strong, soulful, and fucking incredible. Coleman sincerely hopes that Pete can hear the way his words sound coming out of Patrick’s throat, because it’s pretty much perfect.

 _Where is your boy tonight_   
_I hope he is a gentleman_

He stops for a moment to tune a string, and Coleman gets up from his seat and approaches. “Maybe he won’t find out what I know: you were the last good thing about this part of town.” Patrick flattens his hand over the strings and stares at him, expression unreadable, but says nothing, so Coleman continues. “Do you need him? I could be him. I could be an accident, but I’m still trying, and that’s more than I can say for him.” He comes to the lip of the stage and folds his arms on it. 

“You’re not gonna give up, are you?” Patrick whispers, voice shaking. 

Coleman shakes his head. “Nope. So, will you come go with me?” 

After a moment, Patrick smiles and rolls his eyes, and Coleman grins Pete’s toothy grin back at him. 

******

“Alright, so, how do you want to start this?” Patrick asks as he puts his napkin in his lap. 

They’re at a balcony table at their favorite restaurant (or so Coleman hopes Gena will remember) where he always gets his chicken salad sandwiches and raw squash. He leans his chin on his hand and says, “Have you ever been here before?” 

Patrick laughs and gestures around. “Of course not! We’re the only ones here under fifty! What is it with you and old people, anyway?”

“I’m gonna be honest about that,” Coleman replies.

“Oh, that’ll be a first,” Patrick interjects.

Coleman frowns. “How would you know? We hardly ever talk to each other.” He pauses, regroups, and says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that’s not fair.”

Patrick smiles and says, “No, you’re right. We never did talk to each other. All of a sudden, you’ve changed. Why?”

“It’s not important,” Coleman demurs. “Look, I’m really worried about the old couple. It seems like they’ve disappeared, and I’m really worried about them. Is that weird?”

“Yeah, like you,” Patrick retorts.

The waitress comes, and Coleman refers to her by name out of habit, which draws a puzzled look from both her and Patrick. He shakes his head and gestures to Patrick, who asks about salads or raw vegetables.

“What made you order that?” Coleman asks urgently.

Patrick looks down, apparently embarrassed, and mumbles, “I’m... I’monadiet.” He looks at the waitress and says, “Anyway, do you have anything like that?”

“Well, we have a bunch of raw squash we keep around for Mr. Ettinger. You want some seven-grain bread with that? We got lots of that,” the waitress says blithely.

Patrick gives Coleman a knowing smirk and sings the theme from _The Twilight Zone_.

Coleman gives a resigned sigh as he realizes this isn’t doing anything to jog Patrick’s, or Gena’s, memory. “OK, OK, if I take you someplace where nothing weird happens, will you come with me?”

“Maybe. Where did you have in mind?” Patrick asks, eyebrow arched. 

“Come on, trust me! Live a little!” Coleman admonishes. Patrick gives a fond eyeroll, but he agrees. 

They walk along the river, and Coleman waxes semi-poetic about the history of the area, all the old buildings, the year the bridge was built, and any other trivia he can think of to hold Patrick’s interest. It seems to be working, if the way the smaller boy holds ‘Pete’s’ elbow and continually smiles at him is any indication.

Still, Coleman isn’t one to hedge his bets. “You know, you can just tell me to shut up whenever you want.”

Patrick nods solemnly. “I know.”

Coleman even arranges for a horse-and-carriage ride, just like the one he and Gena had on their date. Patrick opens up more, and begins talking about music, his dream of becoming a songwriter, and how the words ‘Pete’ gave him were just what he needed. “I’ve never been great with words,” he murmurs.

“That’s OK. You don’t have to be,” Coleman replies, and Patrick’s face lights up at that.

The two boys end up lounging on the hood of Ike’s sporty convertible by the river, a fire burning in a metal barrel nearby. Apparently, a floodgate has been opened, because now Patrick is telling Coleman _everything_.

“...so my dad left, and my older brother and sister are already moved out on their own, so, now it’s just my mom and me, and you’ve met her. I guess this is just what happens when you have one more child to try and save your marriage,” he mutters with an eye roll. “Why am I telling you my life story?”

Coleman twirls his hair and shrugs. “Because, on top of being handsome, articulate, and terribly interesting, I’m also a good listener?”

Patrick snorts a laugh. “Yeah, you’re definitely a good listener, anyway,” he quips.

“What happens?” Coleman prods. When Patrick just hums a question in response, he clarifies, “What’s what happens when you have... well, you? I don’t think I understand the point of that statement.”

“Well, not only does it not save your marriage, but your kid turns out to be completely defective. Gay, artistic instead of having any kind of practical life aspirations, and apparently not adequately accommodating of ‘the one boy in this whole God-forsaken town with a real future’,” Patrick says in a mocking, highfalutin accent, and then scoffs. “I bet my mom thinks it’s a miracle anyone would deign to go out with me at all, let alone someone who could possibly be any kind of husband material.”

Coleman turns on his side toward Patrick. “What about Gabe? Do you love him?”

Patrick turns his head and gives an incredulous look. “I’m in high school. Who cares? That was kind of my point in making fun of how ridiculous my mother is about the whole thing.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Coleman points out calmly.

“I’m just a kid!” Patrick retorts.

“Still didn’t answer my question,” Coleman repeats in that same gentle tone.

“God, you sound just like Gabe and my mom. ‘Do this, do that, say this, say that, no one cares what you want, it’s all about Gabe,’” Patrick rants, his voice wavering and tears in his eyes.

Coleman puts a hand on Patrick’s cheek. “Hey, no. You don’t have to do or say anything, ever. That’s why I’m asking. I’ve seen how he is with you, and you shouldn’t have to put up with that from anyone, Patrick.” The smaller boy just gawks back in stunned silence. “No one’s ever said that to you before, huh?” Patrick shakes his head, and his eyes well up. “Well, I’m gonna tell you: you’re not defective, and you don’t deserve to be bullied. You’re smart, talented, kind, and kind of beautiful.” Patrick puts a hand on ‘Pete’s’ cheek, and leans up to kiss him. Coleman puts a hand on his chest and adds, “You don’t have to do this, either, unless you really want to.”

“I know,” Patrick whispers, and keeps moving closer. Coleman can feel the sharp tingles of panic in his chest. He’s about to kiss someone else, someone who isn’t really his wife, and someone who is also a guy. If he thought his life couldn’t get more surreal from being thrown into the body of a teenager, then he was very, very wrong.

Their lips meet, and Coleman inhales sharply. Patrick is very gentle, and keeps the kiss chaste, but Coleman can feel the kid’s heart pounding in his chest where his hand is still resting, and his own seems to be trying to catch up. He closes his eyes and thinks of Gena. She’s in there, somewhere, and he needs her to wake up and come back to him, somehow. If this is what it takes, some form of ‘true love’s kiss’, then that is what he will do.

Besides, he thinks that if he doesn’t, it will look more than a little strange. This is someone Pete’s been mooning over for months, and a hopeless romantic like him would absolutely jump at this opportunity. _Takes one to know one_ , he thinks, hoping Pete hears it.

Thankfully, Patrick’s mouth is warm and soft, and it tastes sweet. Coleman doesn’t know what he expected—is his mouth supposed to feel like sandpaper and taste like motor oil because he’s a boy? When Patrick closes that one and goes in for another, Coleman is able to see the experience a little bit through Pete’s lens. He slides his hand from Patrick’s chest to his cheek, and the boy sighs contentedly through his nose. When they pull apart, Patrick’s cheeks are flushed and his pupils are wide in the firelight.

 _Well, I’ll say this: Pete has really good taste_ , Coleman thinks.

“I feel so safe with you. I feel like I could tell you anything,” Patrick murmurs.

“I know,” Coleman says softly.

“You do? Why is that?” Patrick teases.

Coleman closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and says, “Because we’re them.”

Patrick frowns. “We’re who?”

“We’re the Ettingers, Patrick. You’re Gena and I’m Coleman.” He pushes the statement out, like a cork on some bitter tonic, and winces as soon as he says it.

Patrick sits up, anger blazing in his eyes. “What the hell are you talking about, Pete?”

“Ever since our accident, I’ve been stuck here in Pete’s body, and—”

“No. You’re fucking crazy. I don’t know what game you’re playing at, but that can’t be true. I mean, why am I still Patrick, if you’re suddenly not Pete? And... I mean, are you trying to tell me that the old man is on a date with me, and not actually Pete Wentz? So, then, am I, like, interested in Coleman, or Pete? I... Was I kissing Pete? What the fuck is wrong with you?” He’s starting to cry again. “I already get enough head games from everyone else in my life. I don’t need this, too, you _asshole_.” He spits the last word out, as though it’s distasteful to him.

Coleman tries to take his hand. “It’s the truth. You need to listen to me.”

Patrick yanks it away from him. “No! I’m not gonna listen to this! I was just starting to like you! Why are you trying to ruin everything?”

“I’m not! I only did all this because I wanted to live a long life with you!” Coleman pleads. Patrick starts to move away, but Coleman blurts out, “I mean, you’ve been having the dreams, right?”

The boy freezes and turns back to face ‘Pete’. “Dreams? What do you mean?”

Coleman closes his eyes and recites, “You’re inside the Ettinger house with Gena, the pretty lady with the red hair and peaches-and-cream skin, just like you. You’re packing stuff up with her. Candlesticks, dust collectors, a crystal bowl we got as a wedding present—”

“Stop,” Patrick whispers firmly. “How do you know that?”

“Because I’m there, too,” Coleman explains. “I’m on the outside with Pete in my dreams, and you’re inside with Gena.”

“Then, why am I still Patrick?” he asks again, but more earnestly this time.

Coleman looks away, irritated. “I don’t know, exactly, but from what I can gather, it’s because she wasn’t as emotionally invested in the experiment as I was.”

Patrick’s eyes seem to light up with realization. “I remember the experiment.”

“Is that all you remember?” Coleman asks, being very careful not to press too hard or spook the poor boy.

“That and the dreams,” Patrick concludes after a moment’s consideration. He looks Coleman in the eyes. “I know what we have to do.”

It takes Coleman a moment to catch up, but he does. “We have to repeat the experiment.” 

Patrick nods, then furrows his brow. “So, what does this all mean?”

Coleman chuckles. “Cosmically? Maybe something like, be careful what you wish for.”

“I meant you and me... as in Patrick and Pete,” he quickly clarifies, gesturing between them.

“Truth?” Coleman arches Pete’s eyebrow.

“Please,” Patrick says, though he’s not asking.

“OK,” Coleman says, in a _you-asked-for-it_ tone. “Pete’s fully in the dream realm, but he seems to be able to see everything I do. I’ve asked him a few times to switch back, since it seems he’s known how all along, but he’s been too scared to return to his own life. I thought if I made things better for him, he’d want to come back, and it’s a happy coincidence that the part of my wife that’s not in the dream world is inside the boy he loves.”

Patrick’s eyes widen now, and his pretty mouth falls open in surprise. “‘Loves’? Pete loves _me_?” His emphasis on that last word seems to indicate that the confusion lies in the idea of _Patrick_ being the object of affection.

Coleman nods solemnly. “And, I’ve never been one to fancy other men, but, frankly, even I can see why.”

“Well, you might have to explain it, then, because I don’t,” the boy says bitterly. 

Coleman puts Pete’s dark hand on Patrick’s pale, smooth cheek. “I could go on and on, but I think Pete is better with words than I am.”

“The note... Pete wrote it, didn’t he?” There’s no anger or accusation in the question.

“Yes, he did,” Coleman answers.

A voice cuts through their conversation, razor sharp and clearly out for blood: “Well, well, what do we have here? Couple of faggots trying to gross out everyone else out here?”

With a deep, cleansing breath, Coleman turns to see four guys with stony expressions on their faces, and immediately tries to keep the peace. “Look, guys, we’re not looking for any trouble. Why don’t you just walk away, huh?”

The one who spoke steps forward. “Well, it’s a little late for that, fuckin’ homo. Shoulda just stayed in the closet where you belong.”

Coleman rolls his eyes as he slides off the car. Patrick tries to grab him, protesting weakly, but he just gives a reassuring smile and stands facing the men. “Why? Are you getting lonely in there?”

The guy swings at him, lightning fast, and Coleman doesn’t quite have time to duck before he’s clipped in the eye, but he keeps his balance. The guy redoubles with a firm right hook to his mouth. Coleman bends down, but he keeps his bearings and punches the guy in the kidney. The guy folds, clutching his side, and Coleman takes the chance to grab his head and bring his knee up into it. The guy goes down on the sand, curled up and groaning.

Coleman looks at the others. “Anyone else feel like getting their ass kicked by a fag?” He cracks his knuckles for emphasis.

The other three guys pick up the fourth, give a disgusted scowl to Coleman and Patrick, and then leave.

As soon as they’re a few feet away, Patrick jumps off the car and runs over. “Pete! I mean, Coleman... Are you alright?”

“I’ll live,” he mutters as he brings a knuckle up to where he was hit. Of course, it comes away red with blood. “And I think I’d answer to either at this point.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and gives a sharp little bark of a laugh. “Come on, let’s head back. I think the moment is pretty well spoiled.” Coleman nods reluctantly, and they go back to the car. When he walks Patrick to his front door, the boy says, “Well, thank you for a romantic, frightening, confusing, and esoteric time. What more could a boy ask for?”

“‘Esoteric?” There’s a great fifty-cent word.” Coleman grins.

“I only get fifty cents?” Patrick asks playfully. Coleman tries to waggle his eyebrows and hisses at the pain. “You should let your mother take a look at that eye.”

Coleman huffs. “Dale? Please. I’d be lucky if she even notices. Don't worry. I’ll take care of it.”

Patrick looks at him sadly for a moment, then his expression smooths out as he leans in for a quick kiss. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Coleman whispers back, and then Patrick heads into the house.

******

Patrick isn’t even home half an hour when there’s a knock at the front door. Patricia answers it to find Gabe standing there.

“Well, if you aren’t a sight for sore eyes!” she proclaims as he steps into the house. “You know what they say: Out of sight, out of mind.”

Patrick comes to the foyer and takes Gabe’s hand. “Thank you, Mother. We’ll be in the study.”

As soon as they’re away from Patricia, Gabe sits Patrick down on the loveseat and begins pacing and interrogating him. “So, where were you?” His voice slurs ever so slightly, and the erratic wat he moves around the room tells Patrick that if he isn’t drunk, he’s definitely on _something._ Instinct says to pacify him now, and fight later, when Pete can be there to back him up.

“Music room,” Patrick mumbles, mostly to his lap. “I-I’m working on something.” _God, I’m such a fucking coward._

“Well, no you weren’t, because I went there looking for you,” Gabe says, leaning down toward Patrick, who recoils instinctively. Gabe raises a finger. “Look, I’m trying to be cool about this, but you’re doing something behind my back.” He sits down on the loveseat, and Patrick averts his eyes. “Do I have to find out for myself?”

Patrick sighs heavily. “Look, I can’t really talk about this right now, OK? I just... I just don’t know about anything anymore, Gabe.”

Gabe stands and makes an ugly, incredulous noise. “Well, what, am I supposed to just wait around for you to grow the hell up and figure things out, Patrick?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick half-whispers. He feels pressure rising in his chest, something burning and potentially explosive that is telling him _We’ve definitely had enough of this shit_. “I guess... you can do whatever you want.”

“Well, if that were true, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, _Cholula_ ,” Gabe leers, “because you’d have already quit being so damned frigid.” He runs a finger down Patrick’s cheek to his chest.

Patrick slaps it away. “Stop it!” he cries.

“Fuck you!” Gabe roars. “I bet you gave it up nice and easy for Wentz, though, didn’t you, you little slut?” Patrick doesn’t say anything, but his face flushes and his eyes go wide. “I knew it,” Gabe says smugly. “I fucking knew it, the way he’s been following you around, making moon eyes.”

“It’s not like that,” Patrick chokes out, fighting back tears. “Ever since the accident—”

Gabe slaps Patrick across the face, making the smaller boy cry out and put a hand to his burning cheek. “Shut up. There are no accidents, _mijo_. You fell for Wentz’s stupid emo wounded bird bullshit, huh? Well, you ain’t the first, and you definitely won’t be the last. He probably had you eating out of his pants while I was in class ten feet away thinking all about you.”

Patrick scoffs at Gabe, hand still on his face. “Oh, yeah, that’ll be the day, when you’re ever actually thinking about me and not just what _you_ want from me. If I were seeing someone else, you’d have it coming because you don’t give an actual shit about me. Well, I do, and I want out.”

He’s about to direct Gabe to the door when the bigger boy grabs both of his arms like a vise. “No goddamned way. You’re MINE!”

“Let go of me!” Patrick yells.

His mother finally decides to intervene, but of course without putting down her glass of wine. “Hey! Stop it!” she commands, pulling Patrick away from Gabe’s grip. “Gabe, why don’t you just go on home?” She gives him a hard look, and Patrick feels a sudden surge of love for his mother for finally sticking up for him. Still, he doesn’t dare show it, or take his eyes off Gabe, until the front door slams with finality. 

Patrick lets out a breath. “Thanks, Mom.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she snaps at him. “Why did you have to go and provoke Gabe like that?”

A bizarre mixture of anger and the sinking, sad resignation that his mother isn’t actually going to help him or protect him settles into Patrick’s chest, and he smooths out his features. “Oh, _I_ provoked _Gabe_? Because I wouldn’t let him screw me right here on the loveseat with you in the next room? Or because I wouldn’t blow him on a park bench during rush hour in front of half the town? You’d rather pimp me off to an abuser and an alcoholic rather than let me make my own decisions?”

“Gabe’s not... he wouldn’t,” Patricia stammers, then sips her wine.

“He has a flask of whiskey on him at all times, and he goes through almost the whole thing every single day, Mom,” Patrick says, stepping closer to her. “He’s drunk _every day_. He’s drunk right now! Not that _you’d_ notice, I guess.” She raised her hand to slap him, and Patrick just wasn’t having it. “OK, sure, you’re gonna hit me, too? Did you not just witness what that guy did to your own son? And now not only are you blaming me, but you’re gonna join in? What the hell is wrong with _you_?!” His voice has raised to a roar at this point, but it’s wavering, too, because hot tears are stinging his eyes now. Years of built up resentment and fury are boiling over. “When are you gonna stop punishing me for Dad?”

“You ungrateful little bastard,” his mother growls. “I’ve done everything to make sure you are provided for, make sure you don’t end up sleeping in a van chasing your idiotic dreams of being a musician, make sure you don’t end up just like him, and this is the thanks I get?”

Patrick shakes his head. “You haven’t done a single thing for me. It’s all been about _you_. _Your_ anger, _your_ shame, _your_ pain. You thought I would be the answer to making Dad stay, and when I wasn’t, suddenly, everything was _my_ fault. My fault for being gay, my fault for liking music instead of math or science, my fault for being sensitive, my fault you’re a raging alcoholic. How about accepting some responsibility for your life? Maybe if you weren't such a self-absorbed, shallow, superficial bitch, so obsessed with money and what other people think, he would have stayed!”

Patricia just stared at her son, mouth hanging open. “How can you say these things to me? I’m your mother! I deserve _RESPECT_!” She punctuates this by jabbing her finger toward the ground, as though putting a period on her sentence.

“You don’t just ‘deserve’ my respect just because you gave birth to me. You _earn_ my respect by actually raising me, caring about me, listening to me, and actually loving me, not treating me like some broken lawnmower you have to pawn off to the highest bidder, or even just the _first_ bidder.” Patrick swallows hard and eyes Patricia with disdain. “Pete was right: I don’t deserve to be treated like this. Not by Gabe, and not by you.”

“So, now you’re the authority on who deserves respect and fair treatment? You’re seventeen! You don’t know shit about shit. Maybe when you grow up and stop being so naïve, you’ll understand what really matters in this world.” She straightens her back as much as she can and crosses her arms in front of her, one hand still holding her precious glass of Chardonnay.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “I know no one should have to go through life being afraid all the time and feeling like they’re not worth anything. I know the way Gabe acts isn’t right. I know that the way you act isn’t right, either. I know both of you are probably hurting really badly and taking it out on me, and that sucks, but as of now, I officially don’t care. No one is bullying me anymore.” He walks past his stunned mother, goes up to his room, and slams the door.

******

After Coleman leaves Patrick’s house, he goes to see Ike, who seems entirely relieved to see his baby back in one piece, especially once he gets a look at ‘Pete’s’ face.

“You alright?” he asks, his voice full of fatherly concern.

Coleman shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “I’ll live,” he repeats.

“What happened?” Ike asked with a confused shrug.

“Well, it seems that homophobia still isn’t dead.” Coleman sighs, and accepts Ike’s invitation to use the bathroom to clean up his face. Afterward, they sit at the kitchen table, and Coleman tells Ike about everything that happened with Patrick.

“He remembers? I mean, that’s good, right?” Ike prods.

“It is. And the answer is relatively simple. We have to repeat the experiment, and that should switch us back.” Coleman looks at Pete’s long, dark hands folded on the table as he speaks. “I just hope Pete will be OK once he’s back. I’m trying to improve things here, but it’s tough. His parents and teachers are completely disinterested in him. I’ve managed to bring his grades up a little, although the material is just this side of meaningless, and I think I’ve set him up well for his SATs, maybe even college, but what if he can’t keep it going?” He meets his best friend’s eyes, searching for an answer somewhere in them.

Thankfully, good old reliable Ike comes through in the clinch, just like always. “Well, he’s lucky, then, because he’ll have a friend like you to turn to if he needs some help, even after this is over.”

Coleman smiles, his heart suddenly feeling too big for his chest. “Thank you, Ike. You’ve always been a great friend. You know that?”

Ike nods. “Yeah, of course I do.” He sighs and looks at the clock on the wall. “You should probably get home. Don’t you have a curfew or something?” He cocks a shaggy eyebrow and smirks.

“Sadly, no,” Coleman snips. “Dale and Peter would actually have to care about Pete for that to happen. But you’re right, I should get home.” They hus briefly, and then Coleman starts walking back to the Wentz house.

As expected, he’s not greeted especially warmly by Dale and Peter. She sees his face and murmurs something like _Oh my Lord_ , but Peter starts right in.

“Well, Dale, would you look at this? Ask him if the cops are far behind, huh? Ask him if I’m gonna get sued. Ask him if he’s got any teeth left; I don’t think I could afford the dental bills.”

Dale whines, “It’s those no good friends of his, Peter.”

Coleman decides enough is enough. “The cops are not behind me, and it’s not my friends, OK? My friends wouldn’t beat me up like this.” _Well, one of them might, but let’s not go there._ “You know, it’s no wonder I’m so screwed up. Look at you two. You don’t even talk to me! I’m your son, remember? You don’t even ask me if anything’s wrong, or even if I’m hurt! Why don’t you ever give me the benefit of the doubt? What’s the matter with you? I mean, you have no idea what it is like being a kid in today’s society! I am trying my hardest!” He pauses to breathe, and he takes in their suddenly pained faces. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for yelling. I just... I’m trying to manage just getting from day to day. I’m studying harder, my grades are better, but sometimes I’m going to run into trouble, and it’s not always gonna be my fault. Some of it might be. I mean, I’m only a kid and I’m gonna screw up sometimes. But I can’t learn anything or be a better person if you don’t help me.”

After a moment where the two of them just stare at ‘Pete’, Peter speaks. “OK, Sure.”

Dale nods and half-whispers, “OK.”

“Good night, Dale, and good night, Peter,” Coleman says, and then heads upstairs. He can’t remember ever feeling so tired as he does now, especially not since taking up residence in the body of a seventeen-year-old athlete, but he feels so _weary_ , down to his bones. It’s been an incredibly long night, thanks to both the good and the bad of it, and things aren’t necessarily going to get easier. Sleep descends almost as soon as he’s horizontal.

******

_Unsurprisingly, Coleman is back on his porch in his pajamas and bathrobe, but his face wears the cuts from the beating Pete endured. The kid sits on the steps in much more stylish garb, elbows on his knees and sunglasses over his eyes._

_“You know, you should take better care of me, Pops,” Pete admonishes._

_“Don’t call me ‘Pops’!” Coleman looks in the windows of his house and doesn’t see anyone. “Where are they?” he demands, panic setting in._

_Pete shrugs. “Well, everything’s all packed. She’s ready to go.”_

_“She’s not leaving,” Coleman says. “We’re switching back. It’s the right thing to do, and you know it.”_

_“You think you have everything figured out, don’t you, Pops?” Pete stands up and faces Coleman on the porch. “You always think you know everything, that you know best, don’t you? Well, I’ve seen how you handle the simplest of issues, like whether or not to mess around with your friend’s boyfriend, and you can’t even get that right.” He shakes his head. “I can’t go back now.”_

_Coleman doesn’t flinch. “I wouldn’t call Gabe your friend, especially after what he’s done to that wonderful boy. And, you know, you’re a good guy, too, whether you think so, or not. For all that you try to hide it, the fact is that you **care** , Pete, with all your heart. And that’s not such a bad thing, you know.” Pete barks an ugly, incredulous little laugh. Coleman continues, “Patrick sees it, too, you know.”_

_“Sure, once you fuckin’ spelled it out for him,” Pete grouses._

_“Well, were you ever going to do it?” Coleman challenges. “Were you ever going to tell Patrick how you feel, or were you just going to let him keep taking abuse from Gabe?”_

_Pete folds his arms. “It was none of my business,” he says, childish and pouting._

_“How your friends treat each other is none of your business? Real friends say something when you’re making mistakes, and they try to help you fix them! Have you ever even thought about talking to Gabe about his problems?”_

_“Oh, like how Gabe was clearly trying to get you to hang out and talk to him, and even you, the great and wise Coleman Ettinger,” Pete waves his arms majestically, “were too scared to take him up on it? Well, welcome to my life!”_

_“I NEVER WANTED YOUR LIFE!” Coleman roars._

_Pete doesn’t give an inch. “WELL, YOU SURE DIDN’T WANT YOURS ANYMORE, EITHER, OR NONE OF THIS WOULD HAVE HAPPENED!” he screams back._

_“I did want my life,” Coleman corrects weakly. “I didn’t want it to end.”_

_“Well, news flash, Walter Cronkite: part of everyone’s life, including yours, is that it has to end sometime. You didn’t want your life here any more than I wanted mine. I didn’t want to be young and confused, and you didn’t want to be old and scared.” Pete pauses, rubbing his chin. “I guess nothing’s ever perfect, huh, Pops?” When Coleman doesn’t immediately reply, seeming lost in thoughts of his own, Pete frowns. “Hey, aren’t you gonna tell me not to call you ‘Pops’?”_

_Coleman shakes his head. “Bigger fish to fry,” he murmurs. He chances a glance in the window, and Patrick is there, staring at him with a kind smile playing on his lips, and Coleman is more certain than ever that Patrick is the key to all of this._

_Pete sighs and shakes his head. “Well, that’s it for me. I’m outta here.” He kicks an empty soda can, and it clatters down the length of the porch while Coleman watches. When he looks again, Pete is gone, but his voice echoes:_

**_“Keep dreamin’…”_ **

******

Coleman wakes up in Pete’s bed again, and he can’t help still being mildly disappointed. He cleans up, gets dressed, and wonders what he should do next. Should he call Patrick? Go to the house? He looks at the clock at Pete’s bedside. 9:47am. Too early to do anything involving other teenagers.

So, he cleans up and goes to his own house.

He wanders around the first floor, wondering how he could have ever thought it got better than his life here with Gena. In the reflection in the glass over a photo of her, he sees someone else. When he turns around, Patrick is there, and he’s wearing one of Gena’s blouses. It’s a light, soft peach, and it looks absolutely gorgeous against his pale skin and reddish hair.

_God, he looks like her._

Patrick hugs his arms around himself and blushes, but it’s not enough to hide the red mark on his left cheek, clearly the result of having been slapped.

Coleman immediately goes to the smaller boy, hands reaching to cradle his head. “What happened to you?”

“Gabe,” Patrick whispers as he lowers his gaze. “He, um, he knows.”

Coleman gathers Patrick against him. “Shit,” he mutters. “I mean, I guess it was going to happen sooner or later, but I wish I could have been there.”

Patrick gives a wet, choked little laugh. “I suppose it was wishful thinking that we might just disappear to, like, Antigua, or something, before he did.”

“Well, what happened?” Coleman presses as he leads them to the couch and sits them down. He keeps hold on Patrick’s hands, if only so they won’t shake so badly. Patrick gives the basic rundown, and Coleman can feel his blood boiling.

“Gena was in my dream again,” Patrick blurts out. Coleman looks at him with his eyebrows raised, inviting him to continue speaking. “She said she thinks repeating the experiment will work, but she isn’t sure.”

Coleman shrugs and stares into the middle distance. “Not like there are a whole lot of other options, are there?”

Patrick moves his head to try to meet ‘Pete’s’ eyes. “Um, should we do it now?”

“No,” Coleman says immediately. “Tonight.”

Seeming to get the point, Patrick nods. “Right. Well, what do we do until then?” His tone is playful as he puts a hand on ‘Pete’s’ knobby knee.

“Tempting as that is,” Coleman says, taking that hand and kissing it, “one thing I’m not going to do is steal such a moment from the young people who belong in these bodies. They should be the ones to experience that.” _If that’s not enough to make Pete want to come back, then I don’t know what is._

Patrick sighs, a combination of dreamy and sad, and says, “It’s hard to tell whether it’s Gena I feel, wanting her husband back, or if it’s me, just wanting you, or _Pete_ , to want me more.”

Coleman stands up then. “Well, I think that’s probably all the more reason for me not to stay, because I know exactly what you mean, Patrick.” He says the boy’s name very deliberately. “Anyway, I should probably talk to Gabe, although I really don’t want to.”

“I could go with you,” Patrick offers, standing up, as well.

Coleman shakes his head. “You’ve dealt with enough bullshit from him for one lifetime. I’ll handle this, OK?”

“Fine,” Patrick concedes with a weary sigh. “Come by my house later, OK? We’ll get this done.”

“OK.” Coleman kisses Patrick’s lips very gently, and then heads off.

******

Joe is outside Gabe’s house smoking a joint when Coleman arrives.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, wincing at the odor.

Joe gives an annoyed scoff and eyes his best friend. “What you should be doing, man.” His voice is choked with smoke, which he then blows out. “Been here all night trying to talk Gabe down.” After a pause, during which he seems to finally notice ‘Pete’s’ face. “What the hell… did he already…”

“Oh, this?” Coleman touches his eye. “No, this was the handiwork of some neckless jerks at the beach last night who wanted to be sure I was aware that homophobia is still and well.”

“Goddammit, Pete.” Joe stands up and shakes his head, joint tucked between his thumb and forefinger. “I warned you this was all a bad idea. Did you listen? No. Do you realize that everything has completely gone to shit since the exact second you told me how you felt about Patrick? First the accident, then you start acting like you’ve gone even more insane than before, then you get pummeled by bigoted assholes, and now Gabe’s gonna finish what they started on your face!”

Another voice cut into their conversation. “I think I’m way past just punching you, Wentz.” Coleman and Joe whirl around to see Gabe come storming out his back door with a revolver in one hand. They both put their hands up and back away, loosing a chorus of _whoa whoa whoa_.

Joe tries to reason with the crazy boy holding the gun. “Gabe, come on, man, don’t do this!”

“Gabe, put the gun down. We’re all friends, here,” Coleman placates, and Joe nods in agreement.

“Oh, is that so?” Gabe spits out.

Hoping he’s found an in, Coleman latches on. “Yes! I’m your friend, Gabe, and so is Joe. He’s been here all night doing what I should have been, and I’m sorry, but we’re still your friends.”

Gabe cocks the revolver. “You wanna steal my fucking boyfriend, and then tell _me_ who _my_ friends are?” His eyes well up. “You stabbed me in the back, you asshole! I confided in you! I trusted you!”

Coleman smirks and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and I told you exactly what I thought you should do about your ‘problem’.” He puts finger quotes around the word. “You just didn’t like my answer.”

“Hey, Wentz, man, shut up,” Joe warns.

“No,” Coleman retorts, then turns to Gabe. “You’re angry, and drunk, and controlling, and you were shitty to Patrick, and I would be a shitty friend if I didn’t tell you to clean up your act and quit being an asshole. And, by the way, I didn’t ‘steal’ Patrick. He has a mind of his own, and he made his own choices, although you definitely tried to make some of them for him, didn’t you?” Gabe bites his lip, then wipes his eyes with the heels of his hands. Coleman continues, “Look, I know that it hurts. Believe me, Gabe, I know that pain, but it’s supposed to hurt. It’s part of life, part of growing up.”

With a sudden jolt, Gabe flings his arm out and points the gun at Coleman again. “And that somehow makes it OK? Yeah, sure, pain is a part of life when it’s not your own, isn’t that right, Wentz?”

“You think I don’t know pain?” Coleman snaps. “My parents have ignored me for years; two of my best friends in the world have been involved in an incredibly unhealthy, abusive relationship; and one of them is drinking himself to death before my very eyes! I spend all my time dealing with depression and anxiety that is eating up my insides, telling me I’m worthless, that I’m nothing, that no one cares about me, and lemme tell you, that fucking HURTS, man! But I’m still here to face you and take my lumps, or whatever, to try to salvage our friendship, because losing you would hurt!” He sighs, regroups, and says, “Look, Gabe, no one is immune to having their heart broken, and believe me when I say that you will get over this, and there will come a day when you’ll look back on this and laugh, or at the very least, shake your head and wonder how you let one boy fuck you up so badly. It only seems so big now, so far past the point of no return, because you’re young—we’re young—and when you’re young, every little thing seems so big. Everything feels like the end of the world when you’re seventeen, because you haven’t ever been through anything that really could end your world.” He takes a step forward. “Gabe, you’ve got a _gun_. Do you understand that?” He pokes his temple a couple of times. “You’ve got a goddamned _gun_ , and you’re gonna shoot your best friends over a fucking boyfriend? Because that absolutely can and will end your world if you do it. There’s no coming back from it.” He takes another step forward. “Don’t do this. You can hate my guts to the ends of the Earth, but don’t do this. You gotta stop trying to destroy yourself and everything around you. Please?” He holds out his hand.

Gabe’s face contorts a couple of times as he tries not to cry again, and then he gives in and his face crumples as he hands over the gun. While Coleman puts it back inside the house, Gabe just drops to sit on the ground, and Joe joins him. Coleman comes back outside, sits on Gabe’s other side, and throws an arm around him. Thankfully, Gabe accepts it, and the three just sit in silence for a while.

******

Time crawls on for the rest of the day, and after sunset, Patrick and Coleman meet up in the Ettingers’ yard. Without preamble, they stand facing each other.

“Ready?” Coleman asks, and Patrick nods. They begin moving together, just like they had that other night. The night they ‘disappeared’. If Coleman ever doubted that Gena was within the young boy, seeing him replicate the experiment without any hesitation would have erased it.

After a few minutes, they reach their final position, same as before, leaned backward a bit with their hands raised beside their heads. They hold the pose for a few seconds, and then stop and just look at each other.

Patrick palms the back of his neck. “I didn’t feel anything. Did you?” Coleman shakes his head. Patrick shrugs. “Well, I guess we just have to wait and see.”

Coleman shrugs back. “Guess so.” He sighs and looks off into the night. “I’ve never been good at waiting and seeing. I’ve always wanted to know exactly what was in store for me.”

“That was why you did all this, huh? The idea of not knowing if or when you might… y’know,” Patrick chuckles sheepishly, “or when Gena might.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Coleman agrees, “but if this experience has taught me anything, it’s that my life was great the way it was. I miss living in that house with my wife and knowing she was always there for me. Even when I can’t count on anything else, I can always count on Gena. And for some stupid reason,” his voice starts to crack, and tears roll down his cheeks, “I thought that just wasn’t good enough. The life Gena gave me… why did I ever think that wasn’t enough?”

Patrick immediately goes to him and hugs him. “Oh, Coley, don’t do that. Don’t punish yourself anymore.” He pulls back, and Coleman can literally, finally _see_ Gena looking back at him. “Don’t worry. We’re going home.”

“I hope you’re right,” Coleman murmurs, but then Patrick kisses him on the mouth, soft and sweet, and he thinks Pete is definitely in for a pleasant surprise when he gets back.

Sleep doesn’t come easy that night. Coleman tosses and turns, waiting for sleep to arrive, but it seems this is one of those times where Pete’s body isn’t going to cooperate, so Coleman gets up, clicks on the desk lamp, and writes until he drifts off with his head down on the notebook.

******

_Attention, Pops: Thank you for choosing Self-Discovery Airlines, and please remember your baggage as you disembark. We hope you’ve enjoyed your journey back to your former life, or wherever your final destination may be. And remember: Faith isn’t something you find; it’s something you have. Good luck._

Coleman yawns and scrubs a hand down his face, and then immediately looks around.

He’s in his study, and he’s still in his pajamas and robe. He looks at his hands, and is relieved to find that they’re his hands—wrinkles, liver spots, wedding ring…

_GENA!_

He gets up as quickly as his body—so much slower and frailer than Pete’s—will allow, and he goes to the kitchen. Gena is there, puttering about. She picks up a plate and turns, a smile lighting up her face.

“Cookie?” she says cheerfully, holding the plate of treats out to him. Coleman doesn’t reply. “I brought you your tea, but you looked like you were having such a lovely nap.” He just continues to stare, agape, at his beautiful, kind, funny, smart, wonderfully _real_ wife who is standing right in front of him again. “Coley? What’s wrong?”

Coleman blinks down at her and says, “You really don’t know, do you?”

She gives a confused little laugh. “You’re acting so strangely. Is everything alright?”

“Sorry I’m a little out of it,” he mumbles.

“Why don’t you go up to your study and meditate?” Gena suggests.

“No, I don’t think so,” Coleman replies immediately. “I think I’ll go work in the garden. It’s time for me to relax. I’ve earned it.”

******

Pete wakes up in his room, head on his desk, and straightens up with a groan. He looks at his notebook, open to a blank page, and sees something there that he didn’t write:

_Pete,_

_I know you’re afraid to come back. I don’t blame you. Things for you aren’t easy, no more than they were for me in my own life, let alone in yours. Hopefully, I’ve left things a little better than I found them, and hopefully you won’t object too much. Who knows, maybe you’ll even stick with what I started._

_Just remember that the life you have is given to you for a reason. Don’t waste yours on wishes and dreams, the way I did. Live your life. It can be whatever you want it to be, except eternal or pain-free._

_In good faith,  
Coleman_

******

Later on, Coleman sits in his yard with Ike, drinking tea, when he sees Pete, Joe, and their friends walking home from school. Coleman is more than pleased to see Pete’s arm around Patrick now.

“Come on through. You’re welcome to use the property,” Coleman announces to the kids.

They all look at each other a moment, and then Pete says, “Thanks, but we’ll go around.”

Coleman nods. “Well, the offer’s open anytime.”

Pete nods. “Maybe some other time, but… Thanks.”

“Thank _you_ , Pete,” Coleman says. Pete smiles, winks, and walks on.

Coleman turns to see Gena looking on in surprise at the interaction. He smiles back, shrugs, and then sits down with her and Ike. “‘It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.’ -Rowling, 2001.”

_fin_


End file.
